


Back to Back

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Astrophysicist Armin, Background Relationships, Backstory, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Ex-military Jean, Grief/Mourning, Jearmin - Freeform, M/M, Monogamy, POV Jean Kirstein, Rating May Change, References to Alcohol, Resolved Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, Jean met Armin Arlert at a party, a brilliant astrophysicist in his second year of doctorate work, and his life was never the same.</p><p>Five days ago, Jean started recounting everything that's happened since then as he waits for an answer from Armin that will change them both forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Stars and Spirits Collide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RhetoricFemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/gifts).



> Some thank yous are in order! Thank you to tumblr user(s) cobalt-bleu for answering all my military questions, mjolklizard for [her art that basically is what single-handedly inspired this work (and the title)](http://mjolklizardart.tumblr.com/post/119249748773/mjolklizard-and-so-armin-realized-that-that-the), and of course, to RhetoricFemme for the kind commish, and for her patience!

  
_The storm never came_   
_Or it never was_   
_Didn't know getting lost in the blue_   
_It meant I wound up losing you_

_Welcome to the inner workings of my mind_   
_So dark and foul I can't disguise_   
_Can't disguise_   
_Nights like this_   
_I become afraid_   
_Of the darkness in my heart_

—[Hurricane by MS MR](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jO-K1-yB8zA)  


* * *

It can be at the most random of times that huge decisions are made—a brush of fingers under a busy dinner table, a sentence spoken in anger that permanently hinges to the heart, an imperfect kiss that misses lips but conquers everything else—moments that may not be quantified until after the fact.

Jean’s life has been series of straightforward decisions anchored by deliberation, though not necessarily easy. He knew he’d finish high school and join the military. He knew within a few months of being there that he’d leave the military as soon as possible. He knew that Marco would always be his best friend, and that he wouldn’t be able to shake Eren Jaeger even if he tried after they bonded in basic training.

These certainties weren’t all sources of comfort, per se, but simply life as Jean knew it would go. He never had any great aspirations himself, at least not in the lofty ways that friends like Eren and Marco had pipedreams or noble ambitions.

But there are also moments when huge decisions are made based on information, which is Jean’s way of dealing with the world through and through. He’s willing to take chances in the right circumstances, but regardless of how reactionary he can be, Jean’s not a gambling man overall. He’s also not much of a dreamer or star gazer, isn’t interested in the workings of the universe in terms of abstract concepts.

Jean’s relatively sure, though, that Armin’s never had to decide what’s more important: fingers brushing under a table, or proceeding alone down a path so sinister that it’ll be impossible to return from.

More importantly: Armin’s never had to decide if he will go where Jean refuses to follow, but now, that time has come. Although Jean tried hard to avoid giving Armin an ultimatum in their current situation, his own convictions always win out over his desires; somewhat ironically, it’s one of the many reasons Armin trusts him above almost anyone else.

Each night that Jean falls asleep beside Armin, he expects to see the last five years to pass before his eyes like a montage before dying.

Nonetheless, even if Jean had known those years ago that this is where they’d end up—that Armin might choose the cold cruelty of stars instead of human morality—Jean wouldn’t change anything.  
  


* * *

#### Five Years Ago

* * *

Jean doesn’t believe in fate. This is due mostly to the fact that he hates the idea of having decisions made for him, but also, because he thinks relying on abstract explanations is the coward’s way out.

Nonetheless, he can’t bring himself to completely dismiss the idea that meeting Armin Arlert wasn’t at least a little bit fateful.

It was during one of Eren’s send-off parties just before he left for active duty—a guy he loathed initially, but eventually grew to respect—and whom Jean now counts as a good friend. The party was in the Jaegers’ small backyard in the house that Eren had grown up in, and Jean was fully enjoying himself—burgers off the grill, a keg, and some decent company. 

At some point that evening, Eren’s childhood best friend Armin Arlert had shown up, and suddenly became the hottest shit since an active war was on. Everyone was pelting him with questions about his doctorate program, living alone, how things were going with his girlfriend, Annie, and everything in between.

Weirdly enough, Eren—who usually preferred to be heard, rather than ignored—just sat back, drinking a beer, watching it all go down with some strange approval as Armin kept shooting him awkward apologetic looks.

And this is when it all started.

“So,” Jean remarks offhandedly, coming to stand next to Eren where he was seated in a lawn chair that was probably a few years older than both of them, “your friend’s kind of an attention whore.”

“Shut up.”

That earns his attention, because Eren actually sounds legitimately offended; that hasn’t happened since their early days.

“Uh...” Jean replies awkwardly, raising his eyebrows. “I...”

“Armin’s one of the most amazing people I know,” Eren interjects, his eyes wide and full of absolute certainty, “so don’t knock people who are better than both of us, Kirschstein.”

Normally, Jean would just hit back; but something about the way that this Armin kid keeps looking over, the way he keeps eschewing praise and trying to turn the conversation back to Eren, makes Jean at least give Eren some credit.

“Okay, whatever,” he grunts finally, taking a long sip of his own beer. “You got any whiskey?”

Eren always had whiskey; they drank it together as a toast, alone, the way it should be.

It was later in the night, though, when everyone was good and drunk, that the infamous Armin Arlert had finally approached Jean.

In the midst of smoking a cigarette on the street just beyond the boundaries of Eren’s parents’ backyard, Jean’s eyebrows shoot up as he catches sight of Armin looking a little worse for the wear, leaning against the fence and staring up into the sky.

He thought he’d heard the word “astrophysics” mentioned before; maybe he’d heard right. 

“You don’t like me,” he declares, obviously a bit tipsy. “You’re Jean.”

Jean’s eyebrows shoot up, but he cocks his head to the side; it’s clear that Armin is drunk, and although yeah, he thinks the kid doesn’t know how to handle himself, he can’t be that bad of a guy. 

“I don’t know you,” Jean finally settles on with a shrug, throwing the butt out into the street. “But based on everything you were saying before, you seem like kind of a bullshitter. No offense.”

At this, instead of being offended, Armin just looks intrigued. Much to Jean’s dicomfort, he looks down at his outfit of all things—neatly pressed khakis and a blue button-up shirt—and asks, “Am I dressed like a bullshitter?”

Okay, this kid obviously has a screw loose.

“No,” Jean replied, shifting and shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans, cocking his head to the side, “it’s just the way you come off. You’re really sorry for shit you shouldn’t be, and honestly, it’s kind of obnoxious.”

Armin’s eyes widen, and he just stares at Jean for a moment.

Jean registers that Armin is also kind of hot... though he’s not sure whether to tack on “mess” since he’s obviously a bit drunk, or “as fuck” since he’s really attractive.

Jean’s also always been a sucker for long hair.

“My grandfather just died,” he blurts out, blinking those big blue eyes as if he’s can’t believe he just said it. He bites his lip, and for one horrible moment, Jean thinks he’s going to cry. Instead, he just swallows hard, and adds bluntly, “You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Jean clears his throat and looks at the ground. “You don’t drink a lot, do you?”

“No...”

“Maybe you should go talk to Eren?”

“He wouldn’t understand.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“We broke up.”

“Uh...”

Armin stumbles forward a little, and pushes his face against Jean’s shoulder. “Jean,” he slurs, “I’ve never had sex with a guy.”

Oh, Jesus.

“Don’t you guys have... a don’t ask, don’t tell policy?” Much to Jean’s horror, Armin gives some weird sigh and moan, and adds. “You’re gay, right?”

Wow.

The fact is, yes, the military does have that policy.

The truth is, no, Jean doesn’t really care who knows he’s gay.

And wow.

“You need to go home.”

Armin’s is indeed now crying on Jean’s shoulder, in the middle of the street, with the surreal sounds of people dancing and laughing happening in the fenced-in backyard just behind them.

Okay, so even thought this is highly embarrassing and not exactly the way Jean had been expecting to end his night… he’s been there, and he genuinely sympathizes. No point in kicking a guy when he’s down.

“C’mon,” he says, trying to sound compassionate, “where do you live?”

“I’m right in the middle of moving,” he manages to reply in a shuddery voice, “and I’m staying with the Jaegers.” 

“Oh, uh…” He cringes, rubbing the back of his head as Eren’s sexually confused, drunk childhood friend continues to cry on his shoulder.

He’s about to go get Eren, until he hears Armin breathe through a stifled sob, “I’m so embarrassed. Please don’t tell Eren.”

How Jean gets himself into these situations, he’ll never know.

He also doesn’t know why he goes to Eren, interrupting his revelry, to say that Armin is a little drunk and wants to go home. That it’s loud at the Jaeger household, and he doesn’t mind letting Armin stay at his place, since he’s leaving anyway.

He doesn’t quite know why Eren agrees immediately—a little tipsy himself—and grabs Jean’s shoulder to say very seriously, “You’re one of the only people I trust.”

What a night.

On the short drive back to Jean’s apartment, Armin falls asleep in the car, and then remains half asleep as Jean guides him up the stairs and through the front door. He considers directing him to the couch, but given the poor guy’s family member just died, Jean’s feeling charitable.

Armin immediately curls up on the bed—Jean is suddenly very glad he put fresh sheets on it at least—still sniffling a little, but falls asleep quickly.

Jean passes out on the couch, and wakes up to the sound of someone fiddling desperately with the multiple deadbolts on his door, trying to figure out how to get them open. As he blearily opens his eyes, he recognizes Armin in the late morning light, blond hair everywhere, looking worse for the wear and hungover as hell.

Obviously not a frequent drinker.

“Hey.”

Armin looks over like a scared animal, eyes wide and horrified as he stares, and Jean just stares back.

“Uh,” Jean starts uncertainly, the sheets dropping around his waist as he sits up. He’s not wearing a shirt, and apparently this really spooks Mr. Intellectual, because he goes absolutely pale as his eyes dart down to Jean’s chest, and then immediately off to the side to stare at some random point in space. 

There’s a short, painfully awkward silence, until Jean attempts a peace offering. “Do you want some food at least?”

“Did we...” Armin stammers out abruptly, biting his lip. “Um, did we… do anything gay?”

“You mean did we hook up?” Jean grunts as Armin cringes at the words “hook up.” “Of course not,” he continues, scowling darkly and reaching for his t-shirt on the floor. “First of all, I don’t hook up with people who call sex with me ‘anything gay.’ Second, and more importantly, I don’t take advantage of people who are as drunk as you were last night.”

Armin’s eyes are round at this point, and his mouth is hanging open slightly.

“ _Bye_ ,” Jean declares definitively, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and running a hand through his hair. He knows he’s being irritable, but considering he doesn’t know this guy who also obviously can’t even deal with a shirtless dude in his line of vision, he’s not feeling particularly charitable.

Nonetheless, he can’t help but add, “And sorry about your...” he hesitates, looking for a word that won’t be too insensitive, until deciding on, “troubles.” Jean grunts, frowning slightly as he fumbles for his shirt and pulls it over it head. “Eren texted me this morning and said he’d come pick you up when you were awake. As far as he knows, you were tired and wanted to go to bed, but it was too loud at his place. That’s it—tell him whatever you want.”

With that, he frowns again, stalking off into the kitchen to root around in the freezer for coffee, still offended that his unexpected houseguest woke up and asked him if he’s basically what amounts to a rapist.

To his surprise, though, there’s suddenly a presence in the doorway, and he sees Armin standing there unexpectedly.

“You know,” he remarks in what must be the most random observation in the history of morning-after scenarios (sex or no sex) that Jean has ever heard, “storing coffee in the freezer just dries it out.”

“Thanks for the tip,” Jean snarks, rolling his eyes. “The locks are pretty self-explanatory. They’re all deadbolts, so just turn them.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jean’s not expecting the apology, and he darts a look at Armin of the corner of his eye as he rinses out the coffee pot.

“For what?”

“For just assuming that such a close friend of Eren’s would do anything untoward, or that he’d just let me go home with someone who would.” He shuffles his feet a bit, looking unsure of himself, but then adds in an painfully embarrassed voice, “And um, for calling it ‘gay stuff.’ I’m kind of…”

Jean raises an eyebrow. “Closeted as hell?”

Armin clears his throat as he crosses his arms defensively, but is forthcoming when he answers, “Yeah.” The unexpected bluntness gets Jean’s tongue in a twist, so he just bites his lip instead.

“Do you want coffee?” he finally blurts out awkwardly, not knowing what else to say.

“I don’t really drink coffee, but okay.”

“Well, if you don’t drink coffee, then why the hell would you want it.”

“Do you have tea?”

“I have coffee.”

“Then I’ll have coffee.”

“We could order tea.”

“I don’t want tea. I want whatever you’re offering.”

“What is your problem?”

Jean can feel his shoulders bunching and the stress rising, but when he looks over at Armin, it all suddenly dissipates, because he’s trying not to laugh.

It’s not in that mocking way that people laugh because they’re uncomfortable; it’s because the situation is literally that ridiculous, and finally, Jean grins very slightly despite himself.

“I think I might have some shitty teabags.”

“Okay.”

By the time Eren comes to get Armin later that morning, Armin’s number is now in Jean’s phone.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jean wasn’t expecting to see Armin soon after that, but Eren was convinced they’d hit it off.

More to the point: Eren is fiercely protective of his close friends, and it’s in this mindset that he decides Jean and Armin are going to be best friends in his absence.

It’s not that Jean can’t use more friends. He’s not a particularly lonely person, but given that he doesn’t do much now except live by himself, work construction jobs on and off that pay well for short periods of time, and draw in his sketchbook, it’s not like he can’t fit a new friend into his busy schedule.

When Jean was enlisted, one of his squad’s most sought after prizes was a drawing, usually a scantily clad woman, requests for doodles of flowers to send back to significant others, or silly caricatures. He’d never taken it seriously, but it was fun.

Though these days, he finds himself doing it more and more in his spare time—of which he has plenty—feeling a bit adrift. He wouldn’t describe himself as unhappy, but he isn’t particularly _happy_ either. The types of dreams he’d had as a teenager were typical teenage boy dreams—money, wealth, power—all very hard to obtain, and all somewhat pointless once you realized that in order to get any of them, you had to be a scum bag.

Jean accepts Armin as a friend easily, though, especially because he was still secretly touched (not that he’d admit even upon pain of death) that Eren pain-in-the-ass Jaeger trusted him so much.

“Yeah,” he’d agreed when he dropped Eren off at the airport a few days after the party, “we can hang out.”

“Great!” Eren had enthused with a grin, his eyes leveled on Jean intensely as his face grew more serious. “Armin’s sort of… um...”

“Anti-social? An evil genius? A lightweight?” Jean joked, raising an eyebrow and motioning for Eren to get out of the car since other cars behind them had started to beep.

“No, dipshit,” Eren finally replied, rolling his eyes as he swung the door open, “he’s sort of sad. His grandfather died, so you know… can you just keep him company?”

Jean’s mouth had snapped shut, and he blinked. But yeah, he could do that.

“Sure,” he replied more seriously with a firm nod, “I can do that.”

Eren had given a grateful nod, and then disappeared through the automatic doors to the terminal. Just like that, Jean was left with a new friend he wasn’t even sure would want to hang out with him, and a promise to Eren to basically make sure his best childhood friend didn’t jump off a building.

And now, the same evening, Jean finds himself trying to figure out which friend he should call to share a pizza and watch shitty TV with, his first instinct is Marco. This is mostly because Marco and Jean have been watching shitty TV and eating pizza together since the third grade.

However, given that Marco’s probably busy with the family restaurant on a Friday night, Jean decides to make good on the promise he made to Eren.

He blinks sleepily as he stares up at his phone, opening up a new text message and selecting Armin’s contact information. Hilariously, Armin’s the only contact in Jean’s phone that has both the first and last name inputted with correct capitalization.

**To: Armin Arlert – 7:33pm  
hey, it’s jean from the other night. eren said we should hang out. u free?**

Not the smoothest way to ask someone to be friends, but Jean figures honesty is the best policy.

The truth is too that he feels a little sorry for how Armin must live. He can picture it clearly: Armin with his nose buried in some thick book, slaving away under a meager desk lamp and eating ramen at random intervals as he buries himself in his studies to forget about his family problems and lack of friends, probably an antisocial genius who has no social skills.

Jean’s phone buzzes, and he’s already getting ready to tell Armin his roster of Vetoed Pizza Toppings, until he sees the response.

**From: Armin Arlert – 7:34pm  
Thanks, Jean! Nice to hear from you! I actually already have plans, but maybe another night. Have a good weekend!**

Jean just stares at his phone, frowning, and tosses is onto the couch next to him.

“Guess you’re too cool for me,” he grumbles, feeling a little put out since his mental image just went up in a wisp of smoke. “Probably at some fancy party, drinking Shirley Temples and confusing the hell out of girls you don’t actually want to date.” Jean grunts, stretching out on the couch and throwing a blanket over himself, frowning at the TV. It’s muted, and he feels even more pathetic when he realizes that it’s a reality show about people who match their purses to their pets.

“Fuck me,” he groans, scrubbing his hand over his face and yawning. 

_Bzzt._

Jean shimmies away from his phone that’s ended up under the small of his back cursing under his breath, and squints as he reads the text message.

**From: Armin Arlert – 7:43pm  
Are you free tomorrow?**

Jean smiles a little as he texts back and accepts the invitation promptly. He can’t help but be curious now that Armin clearly has a social life and isn’t some stormy, lonely genius hidden away in a musty library, but he’s still obviously intensely private. There must also be a reason, though, why Eren made such a big deal out of Jean hanging out with him.

Then again, as Jean knows all too well, there are different types of loneliness that have nothing to do with what your social calendar looks like, how much money you have in your bank account, or who’s dead or alive.

In the subsequent six months after that first text, Jean learns that Armin doesn’t spend that much time at his own tiny apartment, and practically lives in the lab at Trost College where he’s in the second year of his doctorate.

It emerges over pizza one night that Armin graduated high school at seventeen—information he conveys casually and without ego—right before asking Jean if there’s anymore garlic. Jean doesn’t comment on this piece of information, and passes the garlic.

Over coffee some months later, Jean shows Armin his sketchbook; Armin praises his composition and objectively criticizes his lack of anatomy. Jean shuts it with a curse, and Armin has enough sense to apologize, and get him a cherry croissant to sweeten the pot. Jean accepts it, and gives Armin half; they both learn that boundaries are important.

When Armin asks Jean what he does in between construction jobs and Jean shares his love of running, Armin is intrigued. He insists on joining Jean one early morning in the springtime, yammering all the while about the different types of plants that are now coming into bloom along a rural backroad that Jean always does a few miles on. 

He stretches; Armin talks. He fills his water bottle; Armin talks. He starts at a slow jog; Armin talks while jogging beside him. 

He runs; Armin stops talking, and starts panting. 

Jean does not finish his run, but he also doesn’t give Armin shit for not being able to keep up the way he would Marco or Eren.

“I just like to run,” he says with a shrug when Armin looks mortified that he still hasn’t caught his breath, doubled over and leaning against Jean’s car ten minutes later. “If you don’t like to run, don’t.”

This simple statement seems to make sense to Armin, and finally, he sits happily in Jean’s air conditioned car reading one of his guilty pleasure YA novels and lets Jean finish his customary three mile run.

And then, it’s at around the six month mark that Jean realizes that there are several kale smoothies in his fridge, his apartment is littered with Armin’s chicken-scratch handwritten notes on various scraps of paper sticking out of thick, heavy books, and that the couch even smells like Armin’s shampoo because he ends up falling asleep there so often.

This observation is uneventful—it simply is—though Jean does resent all of this one evening when a physics book jams into his leg after he collapses on the couch and gives him an actual bruise.

**To: Armin Arlert – 5pm  
ur fucking physics book just mauled me.**

**From: Armin Arert – 5:02pm  
Sorry. I’ll pay for the pizza! Are onions still on the veto list?**

Jean snorts as he rubs his hip, even as he takes care to place Armin’s heavy (undoubtedly extremely expensive) textbook on the coffee table. Of course onions are fucking vetoed.

 **To: Armin Arlert – 5:03pm  
onions never left that list. see u in 5 mins. **

Tuesday is pizza night at Jean’s and he doesn’t think twice about it when Armin just walks through the unlocked front door with a large stack of books in his arms, collapses with a sleepy huff at Jean’s kitchen table, and kicks his shoes off.

“Hey,” he says companionably as he opens his computer to bring up the food delivery site.

“Hey,” Jean replies lazily, rubbing his bruised hip gingerly and fixing Armin with a silly grin, “are you serious about the fucking onions? Did you hit yourself in the head with one of your textbooks?”

Armin snorts, his eyes fixed on the screen, and he cheerfully replies, “Did you know that people who curse are generally more trustworthy?”

“That’s fuckin’ good news for me, then,” Jean remarks dryly, standing up to cross over and clear several days worth of unopened mail and empty water bottles from the table.

Armin laughs a little, his blue eyes focused on the screen; there’s always something a little mesmerizing about them, so Jean’s made a point of trying not to stare for too long.

“Well,” Armin adds absentmindedly, “I didn’t need to hear you say ‘fuck’ to know you’re trustworthy.”

There’s something comedic about how absurdly simple it is for Armin to make this observation; Jean knows he doesn’t trust people easily, and that if Armin is anything, it’s good at reading people.

“You never swear,” Jean observes, grinning a little at Armin. “Does that mean you’re full of shit?”

“Only to some people,” he replies airily and without hesitation, and then he raises an eyebrow, lips curving into a smile. Jean knows it’s the truth though, and since he’s not in those ranks, he smiles too.  
  


* * *

#### Five Days Ago

* * *

“You’re really going to go through with this?”

Jean glares at him where he’s standing in the door of Armin’s small study, shoulders squared and his chin jutting out in a display of repulsion.

Armin’s also set his jaw tensely, a few wisps of hair loosened from where he’s messily tied it back, and there are circles under his eyes.

He doesn’t look at Jean for a moment, but tightens his fist around the red pen he’s gripping, staring down blankly at the paper he’s been grading.

There’s a short silence broken only by a slight creak as Jean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, arms crossed as he stares intently at Armin.

Armin’s voice is curt when he finally replies, “If he agrees to join the project, I’ll be able to continue my research.”

Jean bristles, but doesn’t move.

“You wouldn’t have done this five years ago.” It’s a cheap shot, but it’s true.

That’s what makes Armin snap, and he stands abruptly, the chair giving a shrill squeak across the wooden floor as he turns to glare at Jean in outrage. His eyes are wide and bright, and Jean recognizes that calculating look.

Just as Armin opens his mouth to retort with some well-crafted contradiction to Jean’s assertion—or even worse, an explanation—he interrupts.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he growls, pointing an accusatory finger. “Whatever it is you’re going to say, it won’t work on me. I know you too well, so cut the shit.”

Armin’s entire body tenses, but then he just stares at Jean, as if unsure of what to do. It’s rare people actually get away with intercepting his train of logic once he puts his mind to something. In this case, it’s arguing.

But Jean knows that there’s no conviction for the argument, because _Armin_ knows that he’s in the wrong here.

Finally, his face falls and he turns away with hunched shoulders, breathing a weary sigh.

“What do you want from me?” he asks quietly, though his voice is even.

“Are you serious?” Jean retorts, his voice rising. “What the hell kind of question is that?”

“It’s a real question.”

“Well, obviously don’t fucking do it,” Jean practically shouts, throwing his hands up and shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s wrong.”

“There are always sacrifices to be made.”

“Yeah,” Jean agrees, scowling at Armin’s back, “I know all about that.”

Armin finally turns his face to meet Jean’s eyes, and he looks a little guilty. “I know.”

“So, now that we’ve established we both know how shitty life is and how many fucked up things we’ve had to do in the name of _causes_ , why would you agree to something that’s total bullshit?”

“I don’t completely know.”

“That’s not true,” Jean replies in a harsh voice, quieter now. “That kid has no idea that once he’s in, he’ll never be able to leave. That if he takes that contract, they’ll never let him go.” Jean stares openly at Armin now, shaking his head. “Everyone deserves a choice.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Armin retorts sullenly. 

“Yes, you do.” Jean sighs, turning away, not able to look at Armin anymore. 

Armin doesn’t have an answer; Jean doesn’t have a follow up.

Jean goes running, as he is wont to do when he’s upset, and Armin dives headfirst into his research and books, the small frown creasing the space between those blond eyebrows no doubt never easing. Armin has acquired a few more wrinkles that most people his age, barely brushing up against 30, and his eyes are more often shadowed than not. But that’s just Armin—a part of him that Jean accepted long ago.

A few hours later, regardless of their fight, Armin still climbs into bed next to a freshly showered Jean, and when he reaches out to curl his hand around Jean’s waist, there’s no resistance.

It’s only a matter of time, though, when they’ll both need to make some decisions that will change everything.


	2. Ties That Bind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Um,” Jean continues, feeling embarrassed, but relieved Armin has stopped crying, “will you come home with me for Thanksgiving? Eren texted me and told me about that weird cruise or whatever, and… we can have your vegan stuff, if that’s okay. I kind of want to try tofurkey.”_
> 
> _Before he knows what’s happening, Armin’s face is against his shoulder, and he’s sobbing again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been awhile kids, but I am still totally invested in this story! I hope you enjoy this installment... and this is only the beginning.
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains grief and death (Armin's grandfather in this case) as a prominent theme. Definitely not all misery by any means, but just a heads up if that's not your cup of tea.
> 
> Thank you to tumblr user cobalt-bleu for the military title advice!

* * *

#### Four Years Ago

* * *

Jean has a few really important people in his life, and they can be counted on one hand. While he’s always found it easy to speak his mind, he’s never cared much for subtlety. Although this never made him the most popular guy in the group, he couldn’t bring himself to be any other way.

Tact is something he learned in his early twenties, when a few days before Thanksgiving, he’d been fed up with his mother haranguing him to come home (a good, solid six hour drive). He’d said something he couldn’t take back.

_“Why are you so needy?”_

She’d simply replied in an uncharacteristically quiet voice, “I don’t point out your faults, Jean.” 

At the time, he knew he was in the wrong, but his pride got the better of him. “What faults are those? That I’m independent and you just want to control me?”

“No,” she’d replied curtly, “that you never bring anyone home. It’s not right. No other boy your age has _never_ brought someone home.”

Jean had been feeling particularly pissed off that day. He’d had a shitty time of it looking for a job at the time, and he was feeling useless, pathetic, and lonely.

“Because I’m fucking _gay_.” He had proceeded to jam his thumb down on the end call and turn his phone off completely, fighting back tears.

And that was how Jean Kirschstein came out to his mother at the tender age of 22.

The truth was that he expected her to show up at his door, take him into her arms like she had when he’d skin his knee as a kid and cry, put a band-aid on the cut, make it all okay.

She hadn’t.

The day after Thanksgiving, when Jean had sat up all night watching bad reality television and feeling miserable, he’d finally pulled on his parka, hopped in the car, and driven the six hours to his mother’s house without a cup of coffee or meal to be had.

“I’m sorry,” he’d blurted as soon as she opened the door.

“I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me,” she’d replied, her voice thick and emotional. Then, she’d hugged him, pulled him inside, and given him hot cocoa and some leftover turkey.

“I promise,” he’d said later that evening, buried in a mound of blankets on the couch, his voice quiet as she flipped through channels, “I’ll never miss Thanksgiving again.”

Without missing a beat, she’d replied, “I promise I won’t ask you about bringing someone home, but if you ever want to, you don’t have to explain.” 

They’d just sat there in silence for a few minutes, until finally, Jean had let out a breath he’d been holding his entire life.

“Thanks,” he’d replied, biting his lip and hiding his face under the blankets, feeling childish.

It was then that he truly realized how much his mother always babied him, and how much he feeds into it. But unlike a few years ago, when he resented it, now he knows that it’s a privilege to have someone who’s willing to do so much for him.

It’s always been just the two of them, after all. 

Nonetheless, that doesn’t mean that Jean actually _enjoys_ the holidays themselves. The truth of the matter is that he’s always been relatively indifferent. Why there needs to be a giant fucking production involving weird traditions and nice sweaters is beyond him. If there’s one thing he’s thankful for, it’s that his mother doesn’t seem to care that much about when he shows up for any other holiday.

“Turkey Day”—as she refers to it—is just particularly important to her.

“Do you know I don’t even like turkey?” Jean confesses grumpily one afternoon. 

He’s accompanied Armin on a mission to procure decorations for a holiday party for the department—a role which Armin had been assigned and sullenly accepted—and he’s scowling at a large storefront window with a turkey painted on it. The turkey is advertising Black Friday ever so cheerfully, despite the fact that the point is to eat turkey on Thanksgiving, and Jean huffs.

“Do you like turkey?” he asks absently, looking over at Armin.

Armin is shivering, clearly not a fan of weather this cold, and he looks over at Jean with raised eyebrows and a shrug, since his face is currently half hidden in a scarf.

“My grandfather raised me vegetarian,” he says in a slight mumble through the scarf. “But the Jaegers always make it, so I just got used to it the last few years.”

There’s something a little sad about this, but Jean can’t quite put his finger on why. “Oh,” he says quietly, biting his lip, wanting to change the subject. “Well…” he continues awkwardly, “who wants to eat turkey anyway, when they’re always talking to you about sales and shit?”

That earns a laugh from Armin, and he rolls his eyes before taking a sharp turn into the party goods store they’d been looking for.

“Ugh,” he mutters, shivering as he pulls the scarf off his face and stamping the slush from his boots in the entrance, “why is it so cold?”

“Because it’s winter.”

“Thanks, Jean.”

Jean gives him a smarmy grin. “Happy to be a source of information, Dr. Arlert. Enjoy your talking turkey at Eren’s this year.”

Armin blinks at him, staring for a moment, and Jean cocks his head to the side; there seems to be something off suddenly, but he has no idea what it is.

Abruptly, Armin turns on his heel and retorts dismissively, “Stop calling me that, and help me find these dumb decorations.” To Jean’s surprise, he strides away quickly, head down as he peers at each aisle impatiently. 

Jean’s gotten used to Armin’s occasional moods when there’s something bothering him, so he’s tactful as he follows. 

“Why don’t you just get some streamers and a… cornucopia or something, and be done with it? It’s not that big of a deal.”

To his surprise, Armin slowly turns where he’s standing, staring blankly down an aisle with nothing useful in it, but Jean realizes that his ridiculous commentary has managed to inspire a small smile on Armin’s face.

“A cornucopia? What is this, a Greco-Roman myth, Jean?”

Jean smiles in return. “Your intellectual buddies will love it.”

After that, the bad mood drops just as quickly as it had arrived, and Jean helps Armin pick out a few Thanksgiving cornucopia decorations that accordion out.

It’s a few days later that Jean finally understands what’s going on, after he gets a text from Eren, asking if he’s headed to his mom’s for Thanksgiving.

It seems thatthe Jaegers are going on an unexpected cruise, since Eren’s unable to be home this year for the holiday, and they need some time away.

Armin always has “Turkey Day” with Eren and his family.

Jean bites his lip as he reads the text, suddenly understanding why Armin got defensive about his teasing about turkey and the Jaegers. He had no idea, nor could he have known, that this year was different, since Armin always goes for holidays at Eren’s house.

This earns an actual phone call from Eren after texting back and forth for an hour, and Jean can hear the worry in his voice. 

“They actually _invited _him to go on this cruise, all expenses paid,” Eren sighs wearily over the phone, sounding tired and stressed out, “but it’s Armin. He doesn’t accept any kind of charity—if that’s what he thinks it is—and he doesn’t want to leave school. Their trip lasts at least until mid-December, so it just doesn’t work.”__

“What do you want me to do?” Jean asks, scowling down at the notepad he’s doodling on in his kitchen. Next to his scribbles is the phone number for the new pizza place that Armin had haphazardly scratched down, and he decides to doodle around the messy numbers.

“Fuck you too, Jean,” Eren growls.

“Whoa!” Jean exclaims, his attention riveted. “Why the hell do I get a fuck you?”

“It’s not like Armin’s your friend or anything. I should’ve known that—”

There he goes again, being good with words. “No!” he exclaims. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant, really… what do you want me to do?” There’s a short, tense silence, but Eren knows Jean doesn’t bullshit. “And of course he’s my fucking friend, you dumb ass,” Jean adds.

Finally, Eren snorts, and Jean scoffs; they both mutter “sorry” at the same time, and then he hears Eren chuckle a little in that weird way of his. 

“Just don’t leave him alone,” Eren says, his voice serious again. “I don’t care if you tie him to a chair and make him eat turkey, or whatever that weird vegan stuff is he likes.”

“Oh yeah, he said his grandpa raised him vegetarian,” Jean muses out loud, remembering the passing comment. “Kind of a dick move to make him eat meat.”

“Nah, my mom always offers to get the tofurkey thing, but he always says no. One year, she just did it anyway, and he was so embarrassed he didn’t talk for the entire day.” Eren sighs. “He’s kind of a big fan of Thanksgiving.”

“Really? He seemed to hate shopping for the decorations for that dumb department party,” Jean replies bemusedly, raising an eyebrow. His doodles have filled in all of Armin’s numbers now.

“I mean,” Eren says tartly, and Jean can almost _see_ the eye roll from the other end of the phone, “his _grandfather_ was a big fan of Thanksgiving.” He sighs a little, and Jean suddenly feels a slight pang; Armin’s very good at hiding his own pain. “You know, he says he doesn’t want to be a bother…” Eren trails off for a moment, as if unsure of whether he should continue.

“But,” Jean finishes, already knowing where this is going, “it’s really that it reminds him of his grandpa.”

“Yeah,” Eren replies simply, an unexpected sound of respect in his voice. There’s a slight pause, and then he adds brusquely, “You’re a good friend, Jean.”

“Shut up, and stop being gay with me, Jaeger.”

That gets a bark of laughter and a scoff. “You wish, Kirschstein.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Jean grunts and pushes the paper away, groaning a little and rolling his neck. “Don’t worry—I won’t leave him alone, even if I have to tie him to a chair or whatever.”

“Kinky.”

“You’re a creep.”

“Bye, Jean.”

“See ya, Eren.”

There’s a short silence, and then Eren adds softly, “Thanks.”

Jean bites his lip, hesitates, but then says it anyway. “He’s important to me.”

* * *

“Wait, you want me to be your plus one?” Jean asks in shock, staring at Armin’s back where he’s tapping away on his computer and munching happily on pizza.

“It’s not a wedding, Jean,” Armin retorts, snorting a little as he peers closely at his laptop. “I just don’t want to go alone, and if I _don’t_ go, I’ll never hear the end of it. It’s unprofessional not to at this point in my career.”

Jean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment; he learned long ago not to question the weird politics of Armin’s academic world.

It’s one week before Thanksgiving, and only a few days before he’s due to drive his mother’s house. His last construction gig had ended a week ago, and the idea of keeping him mom company and eating her cooking seems like a pretty good idea right about now.

However, after his conversation with Eren, something has been added to his plan. Too bad he sucks at subtlety.

“Okay,” he replies with a shrug finally, “will there be there food?”

“Yeah, I think those little…” Armin hesitates, scratching the back of his head as he searches for the word, “what are they called? ‘Pigs in a blanket?’”

“They’re not serving anything vegetarian?” 

That earns a sharp turn as Armin makes sudden eye contact with him, a suspicious look on his face, as if he thinks the comment is pointed.

However, Jean just stares at him.

“Um,” Armin finally falters, realizing that it had just been an idle question, “I’m not really a strict vegetarian or anything.”

The words are somehow sad, though; small in a way that Armin never sounds, and it makes something twist in Jean’s chest violently.

The moment grows awkward when Armin doesn’t say anything else, until Jean finally coughs out, “Um, because… I’m actually thinking of going vegan.”

_“What?”_

“What?!” Jean exclaims, throwing his hands up and retreating toward the kitchen to regain his bearings. “Don’t make fun of me! It’s way healthier, and you know I like to keep in shape.”

Armin is laughing, though, and it’s a welcome sound, breaking through the tension brightly. “I’m not making fun of you. I’m just surprised.”

A comfortable silence settles again as Armin goes back to his work, peering at his computer, until Jean taps him on the shoulder with his reading glasses.

“Gonna ruin your eyes,” he admonishes. Armin accepts the glasses without looking away. 

“Uh huh,” he replies absently, but the sharp angle his neck was formerly bent at finally straightens. 

Jean leaves Armin to his work and grabs a slice of pizza from the box in the kitchen, settling down on the couch and putting the TV on low.

When they first got used to this routine, it seemed strange. When you hang out with someone, you’re supposed _do_ things. The only person Jean can idly hang around and not think is Marco, and that’s because sometimes Marco literally wants to do just that, given that his life is full of people and activity all the time. Large family, busy restaurant, lots to do.

But Armin is the opposite, spending most of his time in solitude in his lab or at home, doing work. At first, they did do things, until it became apparent that Armin also just wanted a little company when he went about his studies.

Jean, though he hasn’t admitted it aloud, also doesn’t mind a little company when he’s home at night watching mindless television.

He especially won’t admit, because it’s embarrassing, that the click-clack of Armin’s keyboard and the flip of pages of his books has become very comforting. Jean’s fallen asleep to it before, and woken up to find Armin asleep too, bent over his closed computer awkwardly.

The fact that Jean always directs Armin to the couch (there a pillow there now that lives at the end) in a half-sleep and lets him stay frequently, while Jean retires to his bedroom, isn’t something that they’ve discussed. Jean knows it’s a little weird to have someone around so much who you’re not… well, dating, or somehow involved with.

But the fact is that he doesn’t feel the need to discuss or define it. It is what it is, and whatever it is, he’s enjoying it. Armin’s like no one he’s ever met, so maybe this is just a brand of friendship he’s never experienced.

“So, you’ll go?” comes the sudden question. 

Jean jumps a little, half-asleep on the couch, as he sits up to look at Armin over the back of it.

“What?”

“To the party.”

“Sure,” he replies, not sure why Armin’s still asking. He already said he would.

“Um, there’s another part.”

Jean groans internally; of course there’s another part.

“What’s that?”

“You have to wear a tie.”

 _“A tie?”_ He realizes he sounds like Armin just said he’d need to wear a feathered headdress and a boa constrictor, but he hasn’t actually worn a tie since his graduation from the army… or a middle school chorus concert.

Armin cringes, and Jean feels a little bad for his outburst.

“Sorry,” he amends, “I just… a tie? Really?”

“You really don’t have to go,” Armin continues quickly, giving an awkward little half-smile. “It’s not a big deal.”

Of course he’s going; there’s no way he’d let Armin go alone after being asked to provide company.

“No, it’s not that,” he replies, getting to his feet to stretch and yawn. “I just don’t know if I have a _nice_ tie here. Most of my ‘formal’ clothes are at my mom’s house.” He offers up a sheepish grin. “I only have gag ties that Marco gives me every year for Christmas. One of them has elves on it.”

Armin looks at him very solemnly, closing the laptop, and Jean thinks he’s about to deliver a dramatic overture about the importance of formal dress when he replies, “I’ll wear the elf tie if you go.”

Not that Jean ever actually considered not going, but now, the deal is sealed.

He grins, crossing his arms in challenge. “It’s also got Christmas lights on it.”

“Wrong season,” Armin observes with a shrug. “Oh well. A tie is a tie.” He looks down suddenly, a slight blush on his cheeks, as he mutters, “I actually don’t have a tie I’d wear. I was going to buy one.”

There’s something about the admission that seems strangely ashamed, and Jean’s not sure why.

He treads carefully by instinct, offering Armin a friendly smile and pat on the shoulder. “No big deal. You can impress your intellectual friends with my excellent taste instead.”

That earns a smile, and finally, Armin blinks sleepily as he slides his glasses off. “I should go home,” he offers, yawning as he stands and slides his laptop into its carrying case.

“Wanna stay and finish the pizza?” Jean offers casually. Normally, if Armin wants to go home, it’s not a big deal; but there’s something about the former conversation—about this entire holiday—that’s been off. “You know, watch some crappy TV? Rot your brain?”

That earns an outright grin and nod of relief.

Armin falls asleep within five minutes of sitting down on the couch next to Jean, totally exhausted, head tipped back, snoring. Jean just lets him sleep, since he probably needs it. If Armin could stay awake for his entire life not to miss out on any new information or ideas, he probably would.

Finally, once Jean turns off the TV and stands up, stretching, Armin stretches out and curls into his customary fetal position, pulling the crocheted blanket that’s draped across the back of the couch over himself.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he sighs, then starts to snore almost immediately.

Jean snorts a little, shaking his head, and retreats back toward his bedroom. As he turns out the light, though, he stares at the couch for a moment, listening to the sound of Armin’s breathing evening out.

And he realizes: he could get used to this.

* * *

“Nice tie, Arlert,” comes a teasing voice.

There’s classical music playing softly, and Jean is looking around in amusement, holding a strong drink from the refreshment table that he had immediately made a beeline for after entering.

The party is being held in some kind of grandiose room clearly used for everything from academic conferences to student events. It’s a strange space, located in an older part of the university that’s been around since the turn of the century, and the walls are actually made of stone.

It’s almost castle-like, although Jean figures that’s probably intentional. 

“Thanks,” Armin replies without a hint of irony, and Jean snorts.

The offender just stares at them like they’re both insane, giving Jean a once over, until apparently deciding to ignore him completely.

“Is it true that your paper is being published in Quanta?”

Armin just nods politely and demures, “Well, it’s not the paper. It’s just a blog entry I penned—nothing too noteworthy.”

Armin’s getting published?

The classmate just hums indifferently. “Hm, well, Arlert, that’s—” 

“That’s amazing, Armin!” Jean interjects enthusiastically, making both Armin and his fellow classmate jump. He’s stared at by the latter, as if startled at an uncouth outburst, and Jean immediately feels foolish. “Um, I’m going to go get another drink…” he mumbles.

God, he really doesn’t fit in with this crowd. It’s not that Jean doubts his own intelligence. He knows damn well that he has a good head on his shoulders, but this academic shit show is a whole other story. 

Armin’s world isn’t even one he’d like to be in, but he also doesn’t like the sting of feeling like—he  
searches for the word, taking a long swallow of the second glass of red wine—an embarrassment. Armin’s uncultured friend, who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow as far what’s “cool” in the astrophysics crowd. In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more defensive he feels, until he decides to just keep his mouth shut and be silently resentful of Armin’s shitty classmates.

He starts as he feels a steady hand at the small of his back, and then Armin is there, smiling a little. 

“Sorry for that,” he murmurs, dropping his hand. “And um...” he drops his eyes, looking bashful, but then meets Jean’s gaze again. “It’s not such a big deal for some people, but I’m really excited about the blog thing.” He smiles a little, as if he thinks he’s being ridiculous, and Jean has to fight the urge to reach out and touch him with a reassuring pat. “Thanks for saying congratulations.”

Jean blinks, unsure of what to say, and they just look at each other.

“You want to meet my advisor?” Armin darts a look around, and then murmurs, “He’s not an asshole.”

Jean laughs under his breath, and finally nods, somewhat flattered that Armin wants to introduce him to someone so important.

Armin leads Jean toward the other side of the room, and a very tall man with hair as blond as Armin’s gives a warm greeting. “Armin, delighted you were able to attend.”

“Thank you, Dr. Smith,” Armin replies with a nod, “I wanted to say hello, and thank you for giving me that contact. They want to publish a short article.” He rubs the back of his head, suddenly looking nervous, and adds, “Just the online version, of course.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Smith replies, nodding. “I knew they’d be interested. Did you know the readership for the website is far wider than the print version of the magazine?”

Armin looks up in surprise at that, and Jean fights a grin, until those same keen eyes fall on him.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure Mr…”

“Sergeant Kirschstein,” Armin supplies dutifully, looking proud of himself for remembering Jean’s official former title.

_Oh, god, really Armin?_

“Oh,” Dr. Smith says, his eyes widening. “Very nice to meet you, thank you for coming.”

“I’m not actually…” Jean falters, and Armin’s eyes widen as he realizes he said something awkward. “Well, I was, but...”

“For a doctoral student, you really know how to put your foot in your mouth.” A dry, acerbic voice comes from their right.

Dr. Smith’s eyebrows raise ever so slightly, and he looks behind him. “Levi,” he greets, “this is Armin Arlert.”

“Ah, the famous Armin Arlert,” Levi says, raising an eyebrow. “I see.” He looks Armin up and down, as if sizing him up, and Jean just watches in fascination. It’s not that the man seems to be looking to humiliate anyone, but his intention is unclear.

“This is Levi, my husband,” Dr. Smith explains.

“Master Sergeant Ackerman,” Levi corrects, “if we’re using titles here, Erwin.” He gives Jean a once over this time, but Jean just stares back at him; there’s some strange acknowledgement after a moment. “Nice tie, kid.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jean replies cautiously, not sure how to address this situation without embarrassing Armin. 

Levi looks at Dr. Smith (Erwin), and Armin just looks between them, as if waiting to see what will happen.

Erwin smiles easily. “I think first names are acceptable. We’re at a festive gathering, after all.” 

Jean finally frowns; these people are batshit fucking crazy.

“I’m gonna get a drink,” he says, trying to find an escape route. “Um, anyone want something?”

“I don’t drink,” Levi replies tonelessly. “So, Arlert, I hear you’re getting published.”

Jean escapes as both Levi and Erwin turn their attention to Armin, who seems comfortable enough getting back on topic to his studies.

Jean retreats to the refreshment table for his third glass of wine, hoping to god this evening ends soon—as well as that Armin hasn’t noticed he wants to desperately escape—when he overhears the same classmate who’d grilled Armin earlier about being published.

“You know,” says the familiar voice, “it’s just a _blog_. It’s not like a real article.”

“Did you see that tie? What is that about?” comes another voice. “You’d figure if his IQ was so high, he’d figure out how to match his clothes.”

Jean has two urges as this conversation transpires behind him:  
1\. Beat the shit out of these two assholes.  
2\. Stay quiet and know that they’re jealous idiots.

He goes with the second option solely because he knows that getting into a fight with Armin’s colleagues probably won’t go a long way in endearing himself to anyone.

Still, though, the jealous fuckers.

Jean finishes his drink quickly, looking around for Armin, hoping desperately he’s done talking to Erwin and Levi.

Sure enough, there he is, looking around for Jean at the same time apparently. Their eyes meet across the room, and the way his face immediately lights up, as if he’s seen something he’s lost, makes Jean’s heart beat a little faster.

It’s nice to be wanted, just in general.

Armin strides over, thankfully arriving after the two douche bags Jean had overheard have departed, and he looks at Jean in relief.

“You done talking to Erwin and Levi? Wow, that’s a duo.”

Armin laughs softly, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “You know,” he says quietly, darting a look around, lowering his voice even more, “I hear Erwin used to be in some top secret government agency.” He shrugs a little. “He’s sort of… mysterious. He’s a really good advisor, though.”

“You want to be in some top secret, government agency?” Jean asks curiously, studying Armin’s face. “Like, building high tech weapons and stuff?”

Armin smiles a little wistfully and shakes his head. “I just want to look at stars,” he replies softly. “Boring, I know.”

“That’s not boring,” Jean replies sincerely, since that sounds like one of the most worthwhile thing he’s ever heard. No one spends enough time just _observing_. “You ready to go?” he asks finally, trying not to sound too eager. “It seems like people are starting to leave.”

Armin nods eagerly. “Please?” he says with a plaintive raise of his eyebrows.

Jean’s car has shitty air conditioning in the summer, but he has great heat, and Armin falls asleep on the way back.

The weather has actually gotten substantially snowy by the time they arrive at Armin’s apartment where Jean was intending to just drop him off, and he’s actually nervous about the drive back to his own place. He’s crashed at Armin’s place before—granted, not as much as vice versa—but he doesn’t feel weird suggesting it. The snow is coming down in big, fat flakes, and the roads are getting extra icy.

Armin yawns as they pull into the parking lot, and when Jean asks, he just sleepily replies, “Of course. Wow, it’s bad out.”

By the time they’re inside and Armin has made them both tea (his special “sleepy time tea” that Jean secretly likes, even though the box has a bear in striped pajamas on it), Jean himself is sleepy.

Armin’s place is a tiny hole-in-the-wall studio located in a building that used to be a warehouse, but not in the gentrified way. It’s drafty and uninviting, but it’s at least comfortable for what it is, and secure, with a big blue metal door that would keep even the most ambitious intruder out.

He doesn’t have a couch, but he does have a trundle bed, which is the lap of luxury compared to the floor.

Armin is half asleep as they mount the stairs and he fumbles with the lock, swinging the door open and kicking off his formal, stiff shoes.

“Thanks for letting me borrow the tie,” he says, smiling at Jean politely as he pulls it off and lies it gingerly on the bedside table. (The bedside table is about a foot from the door, which is about a foot from the kitchenette on the other side.) 

“No problem,” Jean laughs a little, pulling off his own ridiculous novelty tie. Somehow, though, now he feels a little bad about the whole thing. He was just being silly about the tie, but hearing Armin’s snooty classmates talk shit somehow made him regret the whole idea. “Hey, you got a t-shirt or something I can borrow?”

Armin nods, yawning widely, and points at his bureau. “A few things that are too big for me in the bottom, so they’ll probably fit you. Help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Jean replies, toeing off his own shoes and pulling the tie off.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Armin says, yawning again. “You mind?”

“Nope,” Jean replies. “I’ll survive alone in the wilderness of your castle.”

Armin laughs, shaking his head, and then disappears behind the bathroom door. The sound of water starts up, and Jean finally strips down to his boxers, suddenly exhausted.

It feels weird, going into Armin’s private space and rooting around the drawer, even though he has permission. Jean decides to ignore his hesitation in favor of finding a shirt, since it’s freezing.

However, he suddenly wishes that he’d followed his instincts, because when he slides the drawer open, he sees something very strange.

There are at least five silk ties, painstakingly rolled and placed snugly in the corner, clearly never used. The other side of the drawer, as promised, is a mess of hand-me-downs and t-shirts with old high school logos on them. Jean actually wouldn’t be surprised if one or two had formerly belonged to Eren.

But the ties… it’s just too bizarre to ignore. Here, Armin needed a tie for a formal event at his university, and instead of wearing one of the pristine, fancy silk ones lying right here in his bureau, he opted for Jean’s shitty novelty tie.

And then, he got talked about behind his back for it, and laughed at.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom swings open, and Jean knows he’s been caught when Armin’s eyes widen as soon as he sees the expression on Jean’s face.

Jean slams the drawer shut, grabbing whatever random shirt he happens to have his hand on, and smiles nervously. “Uh,” he stammers, “thanks. I think this will fit.”

Without another word, he turns abruptly, yanking the trundle bed out and pulling the shirt over his head. It fits a little snugly, but he doesn’t even care right now; as long as Armin doesn’t think he was snooping.

“Um, Jean…”

Jean bites his lip, trying to sound normal, but not turning to meet Armin’s eyes.

“No, it’s fine! It’s a great fit!”

“That’s Mikasa’s high school tennis uniform.”

Jean turns abruptly, looking down at the snug shirt he’s pulled on. Sure enough, it’s obviously a girl’s tennis uniform, and way too short for his torso.

“Why the fuck do you have Mikasa’s tennis uniform?”

Mikasa is Eren’s childhood friend and next door neighbor who was basically raised by the Jaeger family, since her parents were always away, or so Jean has heard through hearsay. He’s only ever met the girl a few times, but it’s pretty clear her high school tennis outfit definitely doesn’t fit him.

Armin rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “It probably got mixed into the last batch of stuff the Jaegers gave me. They give me clothes if I can use them, and sometimes I stuff the extras in the bottom drawer. I don’t know!”

“Fine!” Jean exclaims, scowling. “I’ll just… find something else.” 

“Don’t open the drawer again!”

“Why not?” Jean challenges, crossing his arms and pointedly ignoring the fact that he realizes now it looks like he’s wearing a crop-top.

“Because,” Armin says, taking a step back toward the bathroom, gripping the towel around his waist.

It’s not the best time to notice that his abs are sort of unexpectedly defined, but Jean can’t help it.

Armin’s… really fucking attractive.

And then, he feels guilty, because here Armin is doing him a favor, being generous, letting him spend the night, and Jean’s acting like a jerk.

“Why?” Jean asks after a short, awkward silence, attempting to lighten the mood. “You don’t like this look on me?”

That distracts Armin, and he raises his eyebrows in surprise. Jean pushes his dignity aside as he makes a pin-up pose, and to his relief, Armin laughs.

“Uh,” he finally says, pulling the tight top off, “I’ll just sleep without a shirt.”

Armin looks at him for a minute; then looks at the drawer, the shirt that Jean had thrown onto the bed, and bites his lip.

He wants to say something; Jean can feel it, and normally, Jean would coax it out of the other person. it drives him crazy when there’s something that clearly needs to be said, but the other person holds it back.

But with Armin, there is no coaxing, no placating. Either he says what’s on his mind, or he doesn’t; it’s really a matter of him deciding. So Jean keeps his mouth shut, waiting. When Armin does finally speak, his voice is quiet.

“You saw the ties.” It’s both a question and admission, and clearly, embarrassing for Armin.

“Yeah.”

“You want to know…” Armin laughs wryly, humorless and humiliated. “In your words, Jean, ‘What the fuck, Armin?’ Right?”

Jean considers this. Yes, he does want to know, but not because he’s ruffled; he wants to know because Armin is obviously hurting.

When Jean doesn’t answer, though, apparently Armin takes this as confirmation that Jean thinks he’s lost it.

“Seriously,” he continues, his voice raw, “it’s really pathetic.” His hand tightens on the towel he’s gripping around his waist, and Jean watches in horror as those eyes he’s come to know as so steadfast and strong fill with tears.

He’s not even sure what to say, but then, Armin starts to talk.

“They’re my grandfather’s,” he continues, pushing the tears away with an angry, embarrassed fist and a resentful sniffle. “I kept them, because… it’s just stupid. I don’t know why.”

Oh, shit.

Jean feels glued to the spot, vulnerable, as he just stares at Armin. An emotion with which he’s unfamiliar roils in his chest, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s not stupid,” is all he can think to reply, shaking his head. “It’s really not.”

He groans internally. _Good job, Kirschstein. You’re a real fuckin’ soothsayer._

Armin just looks at him, and Jean desperately wishes he was better at this.

“I’ve never had anyone die,” he blurts out abruptly, not knowing where the words came from. “I never really knew my dad, and my mom is all I’ve got.” Armin seems somewhat riveted by this confession, and he’s actually stopped crying long enough to listen.

“Um,” Jean continues, feeling embarrassed, but relieved Armin has stopped crying, “will you come home with me for Thanksgiving? Eren texted me and told me about that weird cruise or whatever, and… we can have your vegan stuff, if that’s okay. I kind of want to try tofurkey.”

Before he knows what’s happening, Armin’s face is against his shoulder, and he’s sobbing again. He cries harder than anyone Jean has ever seen cry, messy and sniffly and red-faced, and Jean just hugs him as tightly as he can.

“I really mean it,” he murmurs, not thinking as he reaches up to stroke Armin’s hair. “I really want you to… you know, come home with me, hang out. My mom would really like it.”

“No one wants to try tofurkey,” Armin shudders finally, laughing through the tears.

“Bullshit,” Jean retorts, finally letting go to guide Armin to the edge of the bed. They sit down together, and Jean bumps their foreheads together. “I said that before, didn’t I?”

Armin finally looks up at him, meets Jean’s eyes, and can’t deny the point. “I guess,” he says quietly, his bottom lip trembling, but the tears have stopped.

“Do you want to put on pants?”

Armin offers up a watery smile, but nods. “Sort of.”

Jean turns away to give Armin privacy as he pulls on a pair of pants and a t-shirt. When Jean has the go-ahead to turn around, Armin is a sight for sore eyes.

His hair is just finally starting to dry, and he’s pulled it back into a neat bun. His eyes are still red, but dry, and he’s giving Jean a grateful little smile, more tired now than miserable. The pajama pants are a little too short and patterned in faded stripes, and his t-shirt is screenprinted with the logo of Sina U—the school he left to come here.

This is someone who doesn’t place a lot of emphasis on logos or emblems, but only survival, the here and now, the clothes on his back.

“So,” Jean says, feeling a little self-conscious now, “do you want to come with me?”

Armin looks at him incredulously, and Jean just waits.

“You really want me to?”

Jean looks down, averting his gaze, but he mumbles, “Yeah, I do.”

Armin sighs, and for a few minutes, there’s no yes or no. He gets into bed, obviously thinking, sliding under the covers as Jean slides into his trundle bed a foot below.

The light turns out, and Jean still doesn’t think he’s going to get an answer, until he feels a gentle touch on his forearm and a quiet, “Thanks.”

“We leave tomorrow.”

* * *

Jean’s mother wants to know who Armin is to him.

“He’s a friend,” Jean mutters, setting his face into an unreadable expression and stirring his hot chocolate irritably. “He’s got no family and his best friend’s still deployed. We’ve um… become… close.”

Mrs. Kirschstein just raises an eyebrow, but Jean is willing to accept the skeptical scrutiny if it means she won’t say anything. 

Just as Jean thinks he’s escaped though, she says, “He’s very handsome.”

_“Mom.”_

“Smart, too, by the looks of it.” Jean’s mother smiles innocently as she stirs the pumpkin filling in a mixing bowl she’s preparing for a pie.

He settles for grunting in return, and delivering Armin a cup of tea where he’s sitting on the couch, reading a book. He looks peaceful and not sad, which is a relief. Jean was worried that, as the holiday drew closer, it might be more painful. However, since they arrived a few days before, Armin has done nothing except happily read, eat, and answer the typical questions about what exactly an astrophysicist does.

“Thanks,” he says politely, accepting the tea and smiling at Jean warmly. His keen blue eyes search Jean’s expression, immediately trying to figure out what has just rattled him, but gives up when Jean just plops down on the couch with a huff.

“What are you reading?” he asks conversationally.

The book is thick, and Jean is expecting to hear a name he doesn’t recognize and/or can’t pronounce.

“Harry Potter.”

“Wow.”

“What?! It’s good!”

Jean just laughs, rolling his eyes, and finally settles down next to Armin to turn on the TV. “Mind if I watch—” 

His tongue sticks in his throat as Armin’s hand suddenly grazes the back of his neck affectionately, totally absentminded, as he flips the page in his book. “Sure,” he says, drawing away just as quickly, thoughtlessly. “Is it the show about people matching their purses to their pets?”

Jean swallows hard, his eyes glued awkwardly to the television.

“Um,” he finally manages as Armin gives him a strange look, “I don’t know.”

As the host describes a designer bag that fails to match the canine aesthetic of the celebrity pet, Armin just clears his throat awkwardly.

“Jean,” he says softly, “is everything—”

“Boys!” comes a voice from the kitchen as the delicious smell of pumpkin pie wafts out. “I hope you brought festive sweaters. If not, I have some you can borrow!”

“Your mom has festive sweaters?” Armin asks, his eyes wide as he stares at Jean.

Jean buries his face in his hands, groaning.

“For Turkey Day!” There’s a pause, and then she corrects, “For TO-furkey Day!”

Armin’s face flushes a little, but despite Jean’s own embarrassment at his mother’s plentiful holiday sweater collection, he feels warmth settle in when Armin smiles a little.

“Um,” he murmurs, looking down at his book, “that sounds good.”

* * *

Jean knows it’s a mistake to go at the wine on Thanksgiving Day before noon, but he’s in a good mood. Armin seems in good spirits, his mother is happy there’s company in the house, she’s happy that Jean’s here, everyone just seems happy.

“Oh, definitely,” Jean grins, feeling a little too merry, but not in a bad way, “that looks amazing on you, Armin.”

Armin is sporting a truly unfortunate sweatshirt with a turkey sewn onto it, replete with sequins for the feathers.

Armin laughs, looking a little rosy-cheeked himself (he drank half a mimosa a little earlier), and he grins. “Do I look presentable?”

“You look like Thanksgiving royalty!”

Jean hasn't had this much fun since he can remember; he feels like he’s thirteen.

“Do I look like I could be a doctor of astrophysics?” Armin inquires, grabbing his reading glasses from Jean’s dresser. They’ve taken refuge in Jean’s childhood bedroom to root through the terrible holiday sweater collection that’s stuffed away in an old dresser. 

He pushes them down on his nose to look particularly studious, and Jean laughs, feeling more at ease than he has in a long time. Maybe it’s the kick of the alcohol, or Armin, or just being home—but he feels good.

In a moment of silly rapture, he plucks the glasses off Armin’s face and settles them on his nose, staring at Armin over the rims.

“Do I look like a doctor, now?”

Armin just stares at him.

“You look…” he swallows hard. “Glasses look good on you, Jean.”

Jean rolls his eyes and pushes the glasses further up on his nose to prove his point. “I am _Dr._ Kirschstein, professor of tofurkey.”

They just stare at each other, and suddenly, it hits Jean: Armin Arlert is staring at him as if he’s a fresh tofurkey platter, begging to be devoured.

It hits him hard, because he wasn’t expecting it, but it’s suddenly so painfully obvious he’s shocked he didn’t notice it before.

“Glasses look good on me?” he echoes awkwardly, scrambling for _something_ to say. There’s something different in the air as Armin drops his eyes, a faint blush on his cheeks.

Before things can get too awkward, though, they both jump as Jean’s mother’s voice rings through the house.

“Boys! Are you ready for the parade? It’s about to start!”

“Better go!” Armin says cheerfully, his voice pitched an octave above where it normally is.

“Yeah!” Jean agrees enthusiastically, sounding downright insane. “Sorry, here are your glasses.” He yanks Armin’s glasses off quickly and replaces them on the dresser, as if they’ve burned his fingers, before laughing nervously and running a hand through his hair. “Not my style. Doctor isn’t really my thing.” 

“Right, right,” Armin babbles as he turns sharply toward the door, reaching out to jerk it open. “Being a doctor is actually pretty boring. Wow I love floats, this is great…”

He escapes hastily into the other room, and Jean puts both hands over his face in mortification as Armin continues to talk, paddling his way through the awkwardness with a stream of surreal, enthusiastic commentary about parade floats and tofurkey.

Thankfully, by the time Jean emerges from the bedroom, Armin seems to have recovered and is sitting on the couch, explaining the physics of parade floats and how they stay aloft for such long periods of time to his mother. As Jean goes to sit next to him, though, he awkwardly ends up somewhere in the middle between the armrest and Armin.

No one seems to notice, and after a little while, they’re all sitting down to eat dinner. In fact, the day goes quickly after that. He worried there’d be tears over tofurkey, sad memories over pumpkin pie, wistful remembrances over bad sweaters.

But in general, Armin is happy. In fact, Jean’s mother loves him.

It’s several days later, when the tofurkey is gone and the pies are finally finished, that Armin loses that glimmer.

He says thank you, gives Jean’s mother a tight hug, gets into the passenger side of Jean’s car and opens a book immediately.

When Jean goes to hug his mother goodbye, though, she says softly, “You finally brought someone home.”

He cringes, pulling away. “It’s not… like that necessarily.”

She just smiles a little, shaking her head. “It doesn’t have to be anything. He matters to you.”

Jean immediately ducks his head, biting his lip, and pretends not hear her say, “You’re head over heels, Jeanbo.”

He hugs her tight—she knows way too much about him—and finally joins Armin in the car.

The ride back is uneventful. They stop for fast food, and Armin reads his book. Jean tries to make small talk, and Armin reads his book. They drive for hours, and Armin reads his book.

“God, was it really that bad?” Jean finally asks, exasperated at the silence after four hours and totally baffled now.

“No,” Armin replies immediately, staring down at the book. “It was… really great.”

“You can always come back,” Jean offers quietly, shaking his head. “Whenever you want.”

“That’s great,” Armin says hollowly, still staring down into his lap.

It’s only when they get back into Trost, when Armin has closed his book and has his bag already over his shoulder, that Jean realizes he wants to flee.

“Hey,” he says softly as they pull into Armin’s apartment complex lot, “are you—”

“Thanks, Jean!” Armin stammers in a rush, smiling awkwardly as he jumps out of the car. “That was great. Tell your mom thanks! Everything was delicious, okay bye!”

And that’s that. Armin disappears into the apartment complex with a big smile, waving, and at first, Jean just sits there, wondering if he’s crazy.

He sits there, in fact, for another half hour, staring at the place where Armin disappeared.

Yes, his mother is hospitable. Yes, everything was delicious. Yes, Armin is a polite house guest.

Armin is not happy; he knows it.

It takes everything in him to get out of his car, slam the door and lock it, make his way up the steps to Armin’s door and knock. Everything in him is screaming to turn back, to not suffer this humiliation, to not put himself out there like this.

It doesn’t take long for the door to open, and Armin faces him with a solemn expression. “Hi,” he says simply.

“You’re not happy,” Jean says quietly, taking a few steps in. “Did we do something?”

Armin just shakes his head, smiling in a bittersweet way, and shrugs. “Not at all,” he replies softly. “It was wonderful—thank you Jean.”

“Stop acting like a martyr,” Jean growls, frustrated, “and tell me what’s wrong.”

Armin’s face falls, and he just shakes his head. “Everything?” he asks, looking up at Jean with dry eyes. “I’m afraid? I’m afraid about how much fun I had at your house? At your _home?_ ”

“Armin…” Jean says quietly.

“Do you know how lucky you are,” Armin asks quietly as he avoids eye contact, “to have a family?”

Jean hesitates, studying Armin’s twisted expression, the sadness carved so heavily into his features suddenly.

“Yes,” Jean replies softly. “But you have a family, too.”

Armin nods a little, already knowing what Jean is going to say. “The Jaegers.”

Jean just raises an eyebrow, feeling suddenly as though he should represent Eren in this exchange, and nods.

“Don’t get me wrong—I do feel like part of their family,” Armin amends, nodding. “I just…” he shakes his head, wrapping his arms around himself. “I feel really lonely sometimes,” he breathes.

Loneliness is something Jean can appreciate; it isn’t just the lack of a place to go during the holidays or of a home, but rather a feeling so vast that it’s difficult to even quantify.

“Why do you feel lonely?” Jean asks, keeping his voice light. “You’re always at my place.” 

“I know,” Armin replies, looking down, “it’s sort of embarrassing, and I’m sorry.”

Jean blinks, his mouth opening and closing in shock, and he stiffens. That hurt.

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m such awful fucking company.”

Armin’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t mean—”

Jean reels in his temper, crossing his arms defensively and staring at the floor. He knows Armin didn’t mean it that way, but sometimes it’s just too frustrating to make his way through the labyrinth that is Armin Arlert’s mind, his reasoning process. Everything is sincere, but it’s…

“Can you stop thinking for five seconds?” Jean demands, scowling. “Can you just accept the fact that I like having you around?” He huffs, rubbing a hand moodily over his jaw—he really needs to shave and get a good night’s sleep after the long drive—and he knows he’s irritable, but he also knows he’d say the same things no matter how tired he was. “Look, I get that you’re lonely sometimes, but instead of rationalizing it, can you just fucking… admit it?”

He stares at Armin intently, willing him into place, to not try to escape and make an excuse. Armin’s great at science, but he really sucks at feelings.

“You want me to stop thinking?” he demands, an unexpected note of anger in his voice as he glares at Jean. “You want me to admit what’s bothering me?”

Jean throws his hands up, giving a wild-eyed stare. “Yes!” he barks.

It’s about this moment that Jean realizes he’s never actually seen Armin this worked up over anything in the present—raw and emotional and uncharacteristically furious—but the instinct to tread lightly goes totally unheeded.

Jean is _pissed_ , because he can’t remember the last time he cared about someone new this much, and of course, he has to be vulnerable with an analytical brick wall who doesn’t want to meet him halfway, be head over heels for someone who’s closeted and confused, and just generally _fuck his life._

He’s not really expecting to be kissed.

Apparently, Armin took the “stop thinking” thing pretty seriously.

And Jean can’t even be embarrassed for the way he totally falls apart under Armin’s touch—a surprisingly strong, albeit unsure, grip on his upper arm—and moans softly in his throat when their lips move against each other.

True to form, though, Armin jumps back the minute he’s reached out, expression closing, and he shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, “that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have…”

“Bullshit!” Jean’s voice is shrill and painful to his own ears, but he can’t help it, because this fucking hurts.

“What?” Armin demands, crossing his arms over his chest now, mirroring Jean’s defensive action. “You… you think, just because I said you looked good in glasses, that I want to…”

He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to rhetorically say, much less have any idea about what he actually wants to say.

Jean knows he should be sympathetic, be a good friend, be supportive of Armin who’s very confused right now.

Then again, Jean’s never been very good at controlling his emotions once he gets upset.

“Want to what?” he demands, pointing his finger at Armin. “ _You_ kissed _me_!”

“I said it was a mistake!” Armin barks back, his face flushed and some combination of embarrassed and angry. “That’s what happens when I don’t think!”

This is getting out of hand. 

“Fine, it was a mistake. Let’s never talk about it again,” Jean replies, his voice tightly controlled.

“I…” Armin stammers, his face conflicted and miserable. “I didn’t…” He’s a total mess.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jean replies dismissively, feeling like an asshole, but he’s tired of this, and he's hurt. “Whatever. It’s fine, okay? Just… it didn’t happen.”

Armin looks like he’s going to cry all over again, but Jean can’t bring himself to say anything else.

“Um…” he finally concludes awkwardly, turning away with his hands jammed in his pockets, “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Armin’s voice is small when he replies, “Okay.”

When Jean gets back into his car, and sees Armin’s book on the passenger side seat, it takes an hour of driving aimlessly and then a midnight run not to cry.

* * *

#### Four Days Ago

* * *

It’s raining, and Jean has to drive Armin to the airport. He’s flying to a country with a name in a different alphabet to present a paper funded by fellowship money that’s due to run out in only a matter of months.

When they pull up at the terminal, Jean just sits there, staring off into the grey sky as the windshield wipers hiss and squeak. Armin just stares at him.

It’s the first time that he hasn’t bent over to give his partner of just over three years a bashful kiss and a whisper to get back in one piece.

A car beeps behind them, and Jean grunts, “You’re going to miss your flight.”

“Do you not want me to go?”

“What makes you think that?”

 _Beep, beep_! Jean feels too downtrodden to even flip off the guy behind them, but he does put his flashers on as the second best passive aggressive option.

“You’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” Jean contradicts curtly, suppressing the irritation that rises like bile at Armin’s controlled tone, “I’m hoping this extra long flight will give you some time to think.”

“I—”

“You’re going to miss your plane,” Jean repeats, setting his jaw. “And by ‘think,’ take off the bullshit goggles you’ve got firmly placed on your nose with those stupid horn-rimmed reading glasses you put on when you want someone to leave your office.”

Jean doesn’t even feel that bad when Armin gets out of the car with a muttered, “See you in two days,” and without further commentary, retrieves his suitcase from the trunk, scowling the entire way through the sliding doors into the terminal until he disappears from sight.

Jean’s jaw is set as he pulls out slowly, calmly switching off the emergency flashers, but his fingers are gripped painfully tight around the steering wheel, and there’s a lump in his throat.

Nonetheless, he can’t feel too bad about their final interaction, because Armin didn’t argue. And when Armin doesn’t argue, that means that whatever the contentious topic was has wiggled itself into his labyrinth of a brain, categorized as “undecided.”

Jean also wasn’t joking about the flight time being used to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First long-ish thing I've posted in a while, so feedback is SO appreciated. <3
> 
> P.S. I am sincerely sorry for the title of this chapter. ~~That's a lie.~~


	3. Rising Heat and Heavy Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Armin,” he says softly, unthinking as he stares and sits up slightly to get a better look. The name doesn’t quite make it out, much to his relief, and his heart speeds up.

* * *

#### Three-and-a-half Years Ago

* * *

“I think you should talk to him.”

Marco raises an eyebrow at his best friend, taking another sip of his coffee, dark eyes never leaving Jean.

“What?” Jean exclaims in outrage, mouth falling open. “You’re supposed to be on my side!”

They’re sitting in the small cafe that Jean frequents on the weekends for their selection of Italian sodas—he has a bit of a sweet tooth he won’t admit to—though he claims he’s just there for the strong black coffee.

Nevermind he has an Italian soda in front of him with an extra pump of almond syrup. He blames his mother, who used to make the stuff on special occasions. Marco doesn’t blame him except to tease him over the fact that it’s not real Italian soda, since Marco is painfully Italian.

He’s also never been one to placate Jean.

“I _am_ on your side,” he replies, “which is why I’m telling you that you should suck it up and call him.”

Marco is Jean’s childhood friend, adult best friend, and biggest critic.

“Fuck you, too, Marco,” he grumbles, taking a sulky sip of his drink before squinting at Marco who looks completely unmoved.

“I think…” Marco hesitates, and even though Jean already knows what he’s going to say, he does appreciate the effort to at least placate his ego a tiny amount, “you should give him a chance to explain.”

“Why should I?” Jean’s hand tightens around his glass, the memory of Armin pulling away still fresh on his mind. “He kissed me!”

“So?”

Jean’s mouth snaps shut, and he frowns. “Stop being rhetorical. It’s annoying.”

Marco heaves a long suffering sigh, taking another sip of his coffee, and studies Jean for a long moment. “If I wanted to be rhetorical, I wouldn’t have told what I really think in the first place.”

The ambient noise of the cafe rises up around them, and Jean feels a sudden pang when he realizes the last time he was here, it was Armin and Marco with him, sharing a very pleasant morning that had left him feeling the most at ease he had in years. The fact that Marco approves of Armin also means a great deal to Jean.

Marco interrupts his thoughts, voice cautious. “Do you remember when you came out to me?”

Jean grumbles and immediately buries his face in his hands in embarrassment at the memory. 

It had been in the locker room their junior year of high school, and Jean was having a bad day. There was a rumor going around that he’d asked a girl out who turned him down, and he was feeling particularly defensive.

Poor, unassuming Marco had cheerfully been changing into his P.E. uniform, when after five solid minutes of complaining about “clueless assholes who were just jealous he got so many girls,” Jean had just looked over and blurted out, “I’m gay.”

Marco, for once, appeared to be rendered completely speechless and shocked. 

One of the cogs that kept their friendship working was Marco’s ability to understand Jean without explanation, and it made him feel immediately mortified when he received the incredulous look. 

Thankfully, there had been no one left in the locker room at that point, because they’d just stared at each other, until Jean had turned away defensively, muttering about how he shouldn’t have said anything, feeling more hurt than he could ever remember.

That was until Marco had grabbed him and given him a tight hug like when they were little kids, and said softly, “I wish you’d told me sooner.”

There’s a reason Marco is Jean’s best friend—he always tells the truth, no bullshit. 

“I remember,” Jean finally grumbles, feeling his resolve to be angry crumbling. “I was scared shitless.”

“Armin didn’t get a hug, Jean,” Marco says, his voice mild. “I get it—he hurt you, and he means a lot to you.” There’s a soft sigh, and Jean clears his throat awkwardly when Marco reaches out to pat his arm in that weird, touchy-feely-from-a-big-family way Marco does, but it’s comforting. “But people make mistakes, especially when they’re scared.”

Jean gives a gusty, frustrated sigh, but doesn’t contradict the assertion, staring sulkily into his drink. “I guess I could’ve handled it differently,” he finally mumbles. 

Marco just shrugs a little. “I wouldn’t necessarily say that. I just think that you shouldn’t keep ignoring him.” He stirs his coffee, a ponderous look on his face, until focusing on Jean again. “You really like him, don’t you?”

“I haven’t decided,” Jean immediately retorts defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yeah, _okay,_ ” Marco snorts, rolling his eyes and withdrawing his hand. It’s not unkind, so much as gently teasing, and lightens the mood a bit. There’s a short silence, but it’s comfortable as Marco finishes his coffee and Jean stares at the carbonated bubbles that rise and pop in his soda.

“He’s stubborn as shit,” Jean finally declares, “and he won’t talk to me first.”

“Sounds about right, from what I’ve seen of him.” This is not good news for Jean, who was somewhat hoping Marco would contradict him. “For what it’s worth,” Marco concludes simply, setting his empty coffee cup down on the table and pulling out his wallet, “I think he likes you, too, as more than just an experiment.”

“What makes you say that?” Jean questions, more curious than contradictory.

“He respects you,” Marco replies, “and it’s obvious he listens to you. He doesn’t seem like the type to listen to anyone he doesn’t want to.”

Jean chuckles a little at that painfully true observation. It’s not that Armin is a particularly pompous person, so much as he chooses his allies carefully, and his friends even more so. 

“So, maybe you’re mostly right,” Jean mumbles, rolling his eyes and kicking Marco under the table.

“Close enough,” Marco laughs. There are a few beats of silence, and Marco is obviously weighing his words, until finally saying carefully, “I think you’ll regret it if you don’t just talk to him.”

Jean doesn’t think he’ll regret not talking to Armin—he _knows_ it—but he just opts to nod a little.

Marco takes this as an opportunity to drop the subject and commence rambling about how his mother just hinted that she’s about to retire and wants Marco to take over their family restaurant, and Jean is relieved to just listen.

He’s lucky to have such a good friend; he’s even luckier to have met more than one in his lifetime.

* * *

Regardless that Jean has resolved to address the situation and take Marco’s advice, he doesn’t get a chance.

It’s a week after his conversation with Marco—and a solid two weeks of having not spoken to Armin (who, indeed, is stubborn)—that he starts feeling under the weather.

He sums it up to the season that’s grown increasingly colder, wet, and miserable. Thankfully, his last job ended just before Thanksgiving, so he doesn’t have to contend with work. He’d actually intended to take some time off for the holidays, which he’s now spending sniffling miserably in his apartment, huddled under a mountain of blankets.

Eren’s still deployed and his parents are gone, Marco’s going on his own vacation with a few of his sisters to visit international extended family for Christmas, and even other friends Jean might call on in an emergency are also away.

“Your mom is six hours away, Jean,” Marco mutters, pacing back and forth across the living room as he eyes Jean warily. 

Jean grumbles and gurgles at him, his head pounding. “It’s fine. I just need to sleep it off.”

“You’re sick.”

“Ya think?” Jean is grumpy; he’s never dealt with being sick very well.

Marco just rolls his eyes with a long suffering expression and shakes his head. “Men are such babies when they’re sick.”

“You _are_ a man.”

“Ya think?” Marco parrots back at him, but he’s smiling a little as he rolls his eyes.

Jean just snorts, always taken off guard by Marco’s surprisingly good humor when dealing with his moods, and he burrows into the pillow where he’s lying on the couch.

Marco has seven sisters of varying ages, so he has a bit of experience with large, rowdy groups of people with conflicting personalities.

Jean turns over to miserably fish out a cough drop from the mostly-empty bag that’s sitting on the side table, popping it into his mouth. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he hasn’t brushed his teeth in two days, mostly because he feels like he’ll keel over if he stands for too long. That, and he’s been asleep for at least 40 hours of the last 48.

“You seem to be getting worse, though,” Marco insists, starting to pace nervously again and crossing his arms.

Marco has his attributes—patience being one of them, sternness when warranted—but his worrywart approach to things out of his control drives Jean insane.

“So, don’t go to Italy, and stay here to keep me company,” he says flatly, knowing this will never happen.

However, when Marco apparently seems to be seriously considering this suggestion, Jean hisses at him. “I’m joking!” That earns a coughing fit, and his eyes water and run as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m _fine._ ”

Marco makes a disgusted, exasperated noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t argue, knowing it’s a lost cause once Jean’s made up his mind.

“You need an emergency contact.”

“My emergency contact is myself.”

“Jean.”

Jean knows that tone; it’s the one that is willing to eat whatever shit Jean has decided to dish out, but Marco’s drawing the line.

“Well,” he says, pouting a little, “seriously, who’s around?”

Marco looks at him with a hesitant expression.

Jean just cocks his head to the side and raises an irritated eyebrow. “What?”

Then, he catches on.

He points at Marco in outrage, jabbing his finger pitifully in the air, as he shakes his head. “I’m _not_ talking to Armin like this, and no, he cannot be the person I call in an emergency. There are plenty of other people.”

Marco grunts, but to his credit, he doesn’t argue; he clearly understands how deeply the last interaction had wounded his best friend, and so he keeps quiet and doesn’t insist that Jean accept the proposition.

“Okay,” he replies, “but we need to find someone who lives nearby, in case you need something.” He hesitates, but then lets his shoulders slump, looking tired. “You’re _really sick._ If you don’t start getting better, you need to go to a doctor.”

“It’s just a cold,” Jean insists, head pounding since he had to sit up to have a coughing fit. “As long as I stay put and drink lots of fluids, I’ll be fine in a couple days. In case you forgot, I’m pretty healthy—I run five miles a day.”

“All right, fine,” Marco says conclusively, ignoring Jean’s point about his health. “You’re getting Margit.”

Margit is Marco’s sister who has never been very fond of Jean, even though they’ve been best friends for years. Jean can’t figure out whether it’s the fact that he awkwardly tried to hit on her when he was fourteen by suggesting she was checking him out (he still remembers the bruise he had on his cheek that his mother had nearly had a heart attack over, until he told her what he’d said and she’d just frowned disapprovingly), or if she just generally finds him distasteful.

Maybe both. In the past, when they were younger, he had a tendency to get Marco in trouble. Whether it was back talking at school or smoking cigarettes behind the bleachers, although it was never anything serious, Margit always reamed Marco out afterward.

Jean is an only child, but even he knows it makes sense to protect the only little brother you have. 

Before Jean can argue that Margit is the worst possible choice for an emergency contact, though, Marco stoops low. “It’s Margit, or Armin. I’m texting someone when I leave here, and it’s going to be one of them. Your choice.”

Jean curses under his breath and calls Marco a few uncouth names to satisfy his own pride, and finally grumbles that he’ll take Margit.

It’s not that he hates or resents Armin; he’s just not ready yet, and especially not in this condition, when he can barely think straight or stay awake.

“Okay, _fine,_ ” he spits miserably.

“She’ll check in on you once a day, and I’m going to make food for her to bring you. You can put some of it in the freezer for later.”

Jean normally would tell Marco to fuck off for trying to baby him, but given the choice between  
Marco’s food and nursing his own wounded pride, he’ll go for the food every time.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. Marco smiles at him, walking over to pat him on the shoulder and pull one of the blankets up over him.

“What are friends for?”

“To torture me?” Jean coughs pathetically.

Marco nods cheerfully. “Yup!”

“Ugh.”

He rolls away from Marco, shoving his face against the back of the couch and groaning miserably.

“Have you taken your temperature?” comes the cautious question.

It’s apparent then that Marco is truly worried about him, so Jean rolls back over and addresses him seriously. “Yeah,” he nods. “It’s fine, just over 100.”

“You have a _fever_?” Marco is genuinely horrified, his eyes wide.

“Well, it was 101 before.”

“Jean!”

“It went down,” Jean retorts defensively, hiding half his face under the edge of the blanket. “See? I’m fine.”

Another coughing fit ensues, and Marco goes to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water, patting Jean on the back as he sucks it down.

“Maybe I should stay.”

“You’re not staying in Trost just because I caught a cold and you’re paranoid. Go have fun with your family.”

Marco just looks at him, staring with big dark eyes. Jesus Christ.

“Will you _stop_ that?”

“What?”

“Giving me the wounded deer look.”

“What look?” Marco demands, feigning shock.

Jean just sets his jaw and raises an eyebrow, fully aware that Marco knows _exactly_ which look. It’s the same look he uses when he wants to get his way, appealing to some base nature of human beings who take pity on his pleading.

The bastard.

“Okay, fine,” Marco breaks first, huffing, although there’s a laugh there, too. “Will you please just promise me you’ll go to the doctor if you get worse?”

“Yes.”

Marco nods, seemingly satisfied with this conclusion, and gives Jean a ridiculously tight hug before he leaves.

“Don’t do it like you’re going to die in a plane crash and never see me again,” Jean complains, hugging Marco back just as tightly despite his words.

They’ve always had a weird give and take that seems to work for only them, but it’s the best friendship Jean’s ever had, and he’s more grateful for it than nearly anything else in his life.

“If I die in a plane crash, I’m going to haunt you from the afterlife.”

Jean grunts and punches Marco lightly in the arm; Marco punches him back, and then hugs him again.

Finally, Marco leaves after a few more goodbyes; but when the door shuts behind him, the apartment suddenly seems very cold and lonely.

Jean frowns, reaching over groggily to look at his phone, and already there’s a text message from Margit. It’s curt and to the point.

**From: margit b.  
I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 a.m.**

Jean sighs and texts back a quick acknowledgement (he doesn’t capitalize anything just to maintain his reputation as being inept at grammar, and can’t help but think of Armin who capitalizes everything properly), and then falls into a deep sleep.

* * *

Three days later, Jean is in his bed with a serious case of the chills, running a higher fever than before. Despite his promise to Marco that he’d go see a doctor, he hasn’t, and he’s starting to realize his mistake.

It’s snowing outside, and it’s freezing; in fact, the heat in Jean’s apartment appears to be broken. At some point, he definitely heard the super stomping around outside, and a few knocks to neighbors and through Jean’s door informing them that the boiler had gone out. They’re in the process of trying to fix it, but it’s really not the best time for the boiler to bite it.

Jean is under the covers, chattering, feeling pathetic as he fights the urge to text his mother. There’s nothing she can do anyway, given that the weather is horrid and not drivable, and she’ll break down with worry.

Margit left him enough food, so he’s okay there, and she has faithfully checked in on him every day, except today. Instead, he’d received a text early in the morning.

**From: margit b.  
I can walk over, but it’s really bad out. Will you be okay?**

Jean had managed to type out a shaky “yeah,” and then dropped his phone somewhere in the bed as he fell back asleep immediately.

Now, he’s awoken with a gluey mouth, eyes feeling crusty and heavy, and there’s a very foul taste in the back of his throat—probably a combination of never-ending menthol cough drops and cold medicine.

He doesn’t know what time or day it is; there’s some kind of pale light coming in from behind the curtains, but whether it’s the light of dawn, a streetlight, or simply a hazy, snowy day in the middle of the afternoon, he can’t tell.

He does feel his phone buzz underneath his back, though, and he fumbles to get it. It’s almost completely out of battery, but it reads six in the morning.

To his surprise, there are three text messages from Margit. The first one is from the previous evening, asking him if he needs anything else; then, a second, asking if he got the first one.

The last one is from just minutes ago, and sounds downright panicked.

**From: margit b.  
Jean, where the hell are you? The snow is so bad I can barely get out the door. Do you need to come to our house?**

Jean groans, but then to his chagrin, finds that the keys on his phone suddenly don’t make sense; they’re swirling in his vision, and the room feels unbearably hot. He wonders if the boiler came back on in full, terrible force, but the radiator in the corner definitely isn’t hissing.

Something isn’t right.

Sure enough, when he takes his temperature, it reads 103 degrees.

Shit.

**To: margit b.  
got fever**

When Margit doesn’t immediately reply, though, Jean’s eyes start to cross and he groans miserably; a cough forms in his throat, but he’s so disoriented and exhausted, all he can do is croak a little.

He knows it’s bad, and that he should probably at least try to get to a doctor—at worst, call an ambulance, since currently his vision is swirling—but instead, he just lies there, unsure of what to do. The fact is that the Bodt household is only a fifteen minute drive, but on foot, it’s at least three miles. Three miles in the snow, with a fever, isn’t really looking very appealing right now.

Not knowing what to do, Jean sighs raspily, fumbling on the bedside table for more medicine that he hopes will bring down the fever, drinks the remainder of the glass of water there, and shuts his eyes again.

This time when he wakes up, he’s not sure what is happening; there’s a cool cloth on his forehead, damp, and murmured words that sound both irritated and scared. It sounds vaguely like his mother when he’s done something stupid, but he can’t place it. He feels like he’s in a dream world, and he realizes he’s covered in sweat, shivering.

“Shit,” the voice says again. “I’m calling 911.”

“No,” Jean manages to croak, “I’ll be fine, mom.”

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, because just the thought of light hurts; he fades out again, slipping into a deep sleep. It could be all the drugs, the fever, or just the simple fact that he does _not_ want to be awake right now.

The deep sleep happens in parts, though. The first is being lifted from his bed and onto something much harder; then voices cursing with the words “snow” and “goddamn black ice” thrown in.

He feels the same cool cloth, though, still pressed against his forehead; that feels nice, at least.

The last voice he hears he can’t place again; but he does hear the words, “No, it’s fine, Margit. I’m here, and he’ll be okay. Thanks for calling me.”

Somehow, he knows right he’d rather fall back asleep and into the dark void than know what’s actually transpiring outside his world of pain.

* * *

He wakes up to a comfortably warm room, scratchy sheets, and no pants.

“What the fuck?” he grunts, only the words don’t come out because his voice is so hoarse.

When he focuses on where he is, though, he suddenly realizes what’s happening.

He’s in a hospital room. There’s a TV above the bed playing some random repeat of a reality show on mute, snow is falling steadily outside still, and there’s a tray of untouched food—cover still on—on a rolling table next to the bed.

That’s not all there is, though.

He feels his cheeks immediately heat and blood rush to his face as he spies someone in the corner, sleeping with his head tipped back, snoring quietly.

“Armin,” he says softly, unthinking as he stares and sits up slightly to get a better look. The name doesn’t quite make it out, much to his relief, and his heart speeds up. 

It all makes sense suddenly—Armin is much closer than the Bodts, and he realizes that Margit probably called him in a panic. The text messages and incoherent sleep patterns suddenly come rushing back, and it’s then he notices the IV in his arm.

“You were so dehydrated they had to replenish your fluids,” comes a quiet voice. “Don’t worry, you’re not dying.”

Jean’s head jerks up and he stares at Armin with wide eyes; Armin just blinks sleepily at him, familiar blue eyes tired and a little bloodshot, and he shrugs a little.

Two things hit Jean at once: one is that he really shouldn’t be sitting up because his head is pounding; two, is that seeing Armin here, in the flesh, makes Jean realize just how badly he missed him. The idea of going two weeks ever again without even speaking suddenly seems unbearable, and Jean realizes how greedy he’s become for Armin’s attention and care, how much he craves that closeness they’ve established. Romantic or not, he just wants Armin back.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out awkwardly, staring still, blinking. Suddenly, the fluorescent lights above the bed seem very bright and hurt his eyes.

Without asking, Armin turns on a smaller lamp on the table, shutting off the overheads.

“Better?” he asks, ignoring Jean’s apology.

“Yeah.”

There’s a short silence, somehow charged, until Armin finally replies quietly, “Why are _you_ sorry?”

Jean bites his lip and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath; he manages it, despite the pathetically raspy, gurgling sound in his lungs, and he exhales slowly, trying not to cough.

“I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen,” he blurts out, averting his eyes downward to stare at the starchy, thin blanket over the sheets.

When Armin doesn’t respond, Jean suddenly feels a little exposed. “Um, this robe thing doesn’t have a back.”

That earns a wry small laugh—but a laugh nonetheless—and Armin snorts. “At least you’re under blankets.”

Jean eyes the hospital gown, and then looks at his wrist, realizing he’s wearing an ID bracelet. 

“Oh, um,” he asks awkwardly, “how did you know…” Suddenly, he panics a little, eyes wide. “You gave them my insurance card, right? Did you find my wallet?”

Anxiety immediately starts to mount. Was he admitted without his insurance being recorded? Where’s his wallet? Where are his keys? Where’s his phone?

Suddenly, a hand lands on his forearm, and he jerks. Armin immediately pulls away, as if he’s been burned by Jean’s response, but when he sees Jean’s face, it seems to click for him.

“All your things are fine. They’re actually in my bag,” he explains, gesturing toward his beat up messenger bag sitting on the chair in the corner. “I gave them all your stuff, and just said I was the nearest friend who could help.” Their eyes meet, and Armin continues in a totally deadpan voice, “Also, I emptied your bank account, and now I’m leaving the country.”

Jean groans, finally sliding back down into the bed as his eyes fall shut, and he shakes his head. “Thanks,” he murmurs, feeling ridiculous. “I guess I should’ve gone to actually see a doctor.”

“Yeah,” Armin agrees, but his voice is neutral.

There’s a short silence, until Armin interjects awkwardly, as if looking for words to fill the quiet, “Your mom is coming in on the next flight that will actually leave the airport. Everything is grounded right now.”

 _“Flying?”_ Jean exclaims, eyes popping open. “It’s only a six hour drive!”

Armin eyes him—giving that look of assessment that’s just as characteristically _Armin_ , as Marco’s doe-eyed “please let me have my way” routine is essentially Marco—and he frowns.

“You’re ill, Jean,” he replies, his voice reproving now, “and people are worried about you. You’re in the hospital, you still have a fever, and it’s because you pretended you were fine.”

He stares at Jean, waiting; Jean just looks back at him.

Well, fuck.

There’s another awkward silence, but Jean doesn’t argue; he knows Armin understands this is his way of conceding the point, and so they let the issue drop wordlessly.

Armin sighs a little, obviously exhausted, and walks over to look out the window. It’s practically a white out outside, but his eyes don’t look like they’re focused anywhere in the external world.

“How long I have been out?”

“Since yesterday.”

“You slept here?”

Armin hazards a look over his shoulder, his expression hesitant, but when he sees Jean is simply curious, he nods. “It’s impossible to go anywhere now. It’s still snowing.”

No wonder his eyes are bloodshot.

Jean pulls the blankets up to his neck, feeling guilty that he’s currently cuddled up in a relatively comfortable bed—even if it is a hospital bed, it’s still a _bed_ —under blankets with a pillow, able to go to sleep anytime he wants.

Meanwhile, Armin, who’s had to brave a blizzard on top of being ignored for two weeks, has been compelled to take Jean to the ER simply because Jean was too stupid to know his own limits.

“I’m sorry for causing all these problems,” Jean blurts suddenly, finding something to be sorry for that doesn’t have to do with their last awkward exchange. He’s still not sure he’s really ready to have that conversation. “Just because I didn’t—”

“If you say you’re sorry for inconveniencing me, Jean, I swear to god…” Armin’s voice is clipped. 

“That sounds like something you’d say, not me,” Jean bites out, characteristically speaking before thinking as his emotions spike, and then he clamps his mouth shut.

To his surprise, though, Armin doesn’t seem intent on denying this observation. He just clenches his jaw, and stares at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says quietly, not meeting Jean’s eyes. “For doing what I did, for saying what I did.”

“You’re sorry for kissing me?” Jean whispers, not able to prevent the pain from entering his voice, not believing this is _really happening again_ as he’s lying in a hospital bed, with an IV stuck in his arm, wearing nothing but a fucking flimsy gown.

“No,” Armin corrects quickly, his eyebrows raising as if suddenly realizing what he said, “no, I mean, I’m sorry for reacting the way I did. I was…” His mouth shuts, and Jean is intrigued when a tendon in his neck tightens—a new gesture for Armin, and clearly one that indicates when he’s _extremely_ stressed out—but to his credit, he doesn’t try to talk his way out the conversation. Still, he remains quiet for a moment after trailing off.

“You were what?” Jean prompts, trying not to sound confrontational. He really wants—and needs—to know.

“I was—” Armin’s voice is cut off abruptly as the door handle suddenly turns loudly.

“May I come in?” comes a cheerful voice and a knock, before the door swings open. An older woman in scrubs walks in without preamble and grabs the chart from the foot of Jean’s bed. “Admitted yesterday for…” she takes a closer look, squinting. “Dehydration and fever?” 

Jean feels his face heat, and it’s not the fever.

“Um, yeah,” he confirms, feeling ridiculous.

She flips through the chart some more, and reads his information. “Jean Kirschstein, born April 7?”

He nods, confirming his birthday, and then rambles off his social security number.

“And it says here… your emergency contact is…” she squints, reading the name. “Armin Arlert?”

Jean’s eyes immediately widen, and he can see in his peripheral vision that Armin’s cheeks have a distinct, embarrassed flush to them.

“Oh, uh,” Armin supplies, “I just put that down when he was admitted, since he’s a good friend, and his mother lives far away.”

“All right,” she replies agreeably, apparently not noticing the tension, “well, if you want to change it, just ask for a form.”

She takes Jean’s vitals—all going well, fever down, pulse steady and regular—and finally, they’re left alone again.

“That was awkward,” Armin says, making everything even more awkward by admitting it’s awkward. He gives a humorless little laugh and shrugs. “I didn’t mean to be so… forward. I just put my name down because I was too panicked to think of anything else when they admitted you, and—”

“Can I keep you as the contact?” Jean asks abruptly.

That earns a surprised silence from Armin, and he blinks a few times. “Um, sure,” he offers, as if unsure how to react to the request. “I mean, I guess I’m the closest, and…”

“No, I want you as my emergency contact,” Jean replies firmly, suddenly clinging to this ballast desperately. “You know what to do under pressure, and you do it.”

“Yeah,” Armin says softly, his voice suddenly more vulnerable, “I’ll be your emergency contact.”

They both give a soft, weary sigh at the same time, and Armin returns to his chair to sit down and rub his temples; he’s obviously very tired, too.

“What were you going to say before?” Jean asks quietly.

“What?” Armin looks up in surprise, puzzled.

“Before the nurse came in,” Jean continues, not willing to let it drop. “What were you going to say?”

There’s a short pause, but Jean knows from the expression on Armin’s face that he’s contemplating how to respond again, not just trying to remember the conversation.

He stares down into his lap, and watching him try to get the words out—things that usually come so easily to him—is painful.

“I was scared,” he finally says softly, after what seems like an eon.

“Do you really regret it?”

Armin looks up, meeting Jean’s eyes, and he looks more vulnerable than Jean can remember ever seeing him.

“No,” he says simply, his voice quiet.

Suddenly, a sharp pain suddenly spikes through Jean’s head, and he winces, groaning a little as he sides further under the blankets. “Headache,” he explains, closing his eyes. “I guess I overexerted myself.”

There’s the slide of a chair over the floor, and then Armin is standing next to him; he feels a light touch against his forehead, that same feeling of the cool cloth as the day before.

He doesn’t even breathe—and he’s relatively sure Armin doesn’t either—as he presses it gently against Jean’s forehead, letting it rest there.

“Better?” Armin asks. “It’s an ice pack in a washcloth. A few hours old, but it’s still pretty cold.”

“Yeah,” Jean exhales, feeling relief from the cool sensation against his sweaty forehead. “Sorry, I’m gross.” 

That earns a genuine laugh, and Armin rolls his eyes a little. “Get some sleep, Jean. You need it. You can clean up when you’re better.”

Even if Jean wanted to argue, he’s too tired, and he falls into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

His mother cries and hugs him so tightly that he’s sure he’s going to suffocate; she’s absolutely hysterical when she arrives at the hospital directly from the airport the day after he’s been admitted, and is actually scheduled to be released. Then, much to Jean’s mortification, she hugs Armin just as tightly and scatters grateful, motherly kisses over his face as they stand in the reception area, waiting to sign the release paperwork.

“Thank you,” she tells Armin, practically tearful, “for taking care of him.”

“Mom.” Jean says gruffly, feeling embarrassed; he knows she flew here, paid money they don’t for the flight, but sometimes it’s just a little too much. However, he does add, “Thanks for coming… but really, I’m fine.”

In fact, a few hours after Jean had fallen asleep and then woken up again, Armin had set up his laptop so they could Skype with Jean’s mother who looked like she was about to break out in hives from stress.

“Jean Kirschstein, never do that to me again—not telling me you’re sick from the get go!”

Jean sighs, signing several forms that he acknowledges the fees and care he received, and then turns to his mother and Armin tiredly. He’s ready to go home.

“I promise,” he nods, not feeling like arguing or getting into specifics. “I’m sorry.”

That seems to surprise her, since Jean isn’t really one to readily apologize, and she shoots a look at Armin, as if this is his doing.

It actually might be, but Jean is too worn out to really think about it at length.

Armin heads home once they leave the hospital, and they exchange an awkward, somewhat confusing hug, but not altogether unwelcome. Much to Jean’s consternation, though, once he’s alone again, he immediately misses Armin’s presence.

He’s happy to see his mother, though, and she clucks approvingly when she sees Marco’s food in the freezer. It’s nice to have her there, helping him and cleaning up the mess he made when he was sick—empty cough drop bags and dirty, sweaty sheets—since he still feels weak from the ordeal.

It’s the night before she’s due to go back, sitting at Jean’s tiny kitchen table as they eat together a day later, that she asks the question he knew was coming.

“Are you seeing Armin?”

“I see Armin all the time,” Jean retorts, stuffing a piece of garlic bread in his mouth so he doesn’t have to talk.

“Jean.”

He chews slowly, pointing at his mouth and shrugging.

That earns a roll of his mother’s eyes as she stands up to clear her own plate, setting it in the clean sink that is totally clear of dishes and any type of grime whatsoever (courtesy, one: Mrs. Kirschstein).

Finally, as he swallows he can’t avoid it anymore, and he frowns slightly as he tries to come up with an answer. “We… got into a fight.”

His mother doesn’t pry, and just waits, innocently rinsing off her plate and nodding. “Mm?” she hums, as if absentmindedly. 

“And...” he scowls down at his plate, feeling the hurt rise up again.

“He hurt you?” she asks, her voice nonchalant.

“Yeah.”

“Did you hurt him?”

That earns a gaze up in her direction, not thinking of it that way. “Um, not intentionally.”

“Mm.” She hums again as he turns on the hot water and picks up the sponge, squeezing some soap onto it.

“What?”

He knows she wants to say something. His mother is relatively good about knowing when to stop talking, or leave him alone, but sometimes her urge to speak is just as pressing—and ill timed—as his own.

“Are you going to handle this the way you handled being sick?” she finally asks.

There it is: the bomb, and Jean sees red.

“No,” he grunts, standing up without finishing, “I’m going to handle it like I want to, without anyone’s fucking input.” His voice grows thick as he continues, clenching his fists. “It’s not your business, or Marco’s business, or anyone’s business!”

His mother doesn’t react to his dramatic, angry declarations, placing her now-clean plate neatly in the dish drain and turning around to meet his eyes calmly.

“You were the happiest I’ve seen you in years when you came home,” she replies simply. 

Jean just stares at her, and then he scowls, not knowing what to say for a moment. “What the hell does that mean?” he replies, shaking his head. “Am I miserable bastard all the time or something?”

“Stop cursing.”

“Well, am I?”

His mother just shakes her head, giving him an exasperated look. “No, but you don’t seem happy.”

“Who the fuck—” he cuts himself off as he curses, and starts over. “Who’s happy all the time?”

“No one,” she agrees, “but when you meet someone who makes you happy, it’s rare. Take it from me, an old lady.”

“Ugh,” he retorts in disgust, rolling his eyes as he takes a bite of pasta, “you’re not old.”

She laughs a little, patting his shoulder, and takes his empty plate to wash. “Thank you, Jean.”

There’s a short, somewhat tense silence as she washes his plate, and he feels a little guilty about letting her do the work. Nonetheless, she always insists on doing it when she visits, so he doesn’t argue anymore. 

“If he did something unforgivable,” she softly after gingerly putting the plate in the dish drain next to her own, “I’m not saying forgive him. I’m always on your side, Jean.”

“You like him,” he retorts brattily, still feeling defensive.

“Of course I like him,” she agrees, rolling her eyes slightly. “He’s a polite, handsome, smart young man, who seems to like you very much.”

“Yeah,” Jean says, feeling pathetic that he has no other response, until remembering one little fact. “And closeted as fu—” He stammers, and then takes out the curse. “He’s closeted. You know, like he’s not out about being…” Jean hesitates, not quite sure if calling Armin “gay” is quite accurate, since he’s never actually asked, so he settles for, “…not-straight, or whatever he is.”

“I know what ‘closeted’ means, Jean,” his mother replies flatly, staring at him with an incredulous, though slightly amused expression. “I have a gay son, remember?”

“I didn’t know your kid was a fag,” he says, intending for it as a joke.

But she looks upset suddenly when the word comes out of his mouth, and he immediately feels regret. “I was just kidding,” he says quickly, “you’ve been great about… everything.”

“Was it hard?” she asks suddenly, an emotional look on her face.

“Was what hard?”

“Coming out to me?” she asks softly, her voice unexpectedly raw. “Even the way it happened?”

Jean swallows hard, staring down at the placemat. “Um…” he mutters awkwardly, “sort of.”

“Why?”

His throat feels tight. Even though they’ve been through this before, the emotional intensity of the issue never dissipates. “Because I was scared,” he whispers.

“Scared of me?” she asks, her voice almost as quiet. “Of my reaction?”

“No,” he replies, his eyes fixed on the ugly paisley pattern of the placemat, “just scared.”

_“I was scared.”_

The conversation is over then, and she gives him a tight hug. “I love you, Jeanbo,” she says softly, patting his back affectionately. “Everyone is scared sometimes.”

He doesn’t reply, just takes a deep breath, and hugs her back just as tightly.

She leaves the next day, taking a bus back because she’s always been as frugal as possible, waving cheerfully from the window as it pulls away.

Jean waves back, before reaching into his back pocket and lighting up a cigarette; on second thought, though, he puts it out in the snow. Probably not great for him, since he still has a slight cough.

He’s not expecting his phone to buzz suddenly with a text message.

**From: Armin Arlert  
I need to talk to you. Are you available?**

He replies yes.

* * *

It takes a day for them to talk. 

Armin is still finishing up his work for the semester, Erwin is a tough taskmaster, and Jean forces himself to be patient. 

All day, though, it’s like an avalanche of conversation making up for the two weeks of painful radio silence.

The next morning at ten a.m.: 

**From: Armin Arlert  
Someone brought a salami sandwich and the lab smells like it now. Ew.**

Jean chuckles, smiling a little as he replies with a dirty joke about meat.

At noon: 

**From: Armin Arlert  
My Excel file got saved over and now I have to wait for ITTS to restore it from the backup. -_-**

Jean texts back a series of colorful descriptors for whoever saved over Armin’s file, and he receives an amused message back.

At two p.m.:

**From: Armin Arlert  
Did you know that they have some of Einstein’s papers that’ve never been published in the library here? Omg.**

Jean laughs, and he feels a warmth rise in his chest.

At five p.m.:

**From: Armin Arlert  
Are you around tonight?**

**To: Armin Arlert  
see you at 7?**

Jean’s been so at ease all day, easy to forget what actually transpired two and a half weeks ago, that it almost surprises him when suddenly his heart speeds up as the gravity of the situation sets in.

They’re going to “talk.”

He feels a little faint, and it’s definitely not a relapse into his previous fever.

* * *

Jean’s not sure what to expect when he hears the knock on the door, dozing off on the couch as he contemplates dinner, and he’s jolted out of sleep sharply.

He’s slightly disoriented as he opens the door, but Armin is a sight for sore eyes as he stands there, looking a little hesitant, but clearly happy to be there. He has his reading glasses perched on his head (most likely forgotten about), his hair tied back halfway wit a few loose strands pushed behind his ears, and his blue eyes are keen and focused intently on Jean.

Jean’s heart speeds up.

“Hi,” is the first thing he says, smiling nervously and shifting his books from one arm to the other. “Um, thanks for…”

“You want pizza?” Jean interjects, staring into Armin’s eyes and trying to control his heart. It’s both nerve wracking, since there’s a very raw energy between them, but also comfortingly normal.

Armin smiles a little, some of the tension disappearing from his face. “Yeah,” he nods, then blinks heavily, “I’m exhausted.”

Jean orders the pizza—no need to discuss toppings—and he chats to Armin about inane things. Thankfully, it’s not so much awkward small talk as it is a nice feeling to settle back into a routine and friendship Jean enjoys more than he has anything in a long time.

Armin is sitting in his customary place on the couch, listening as Jean talks and nodding at appropriate intervals. 

Out of nowhere, just as Jean is starting on a rant about how he’s pissed that the roads haven’t been properly plowed so he can’t run, Armin interrupts.

“I have something to ask you.”

Jean blinks, and immediately, dread settles heavy into his gut. Trust Armin to just pull it out of the bag that way, without warning or finesse, something weighing on his mind he needs to talk about.

Jean’s mouth snaps shut, and he just nods dumbly, feeling cautious. “Okay.”

At the same time, though, he’s a little surprised at the wording; he was expecting Armin to declare he had something he needed to say, rather than something he needs to _ask._

Then again, it’s Armin, and Jean gave up trying to predict his actions a long time ago when it comes to emotions.

“I’m not sure if it’s something I should—” 

“Jesus, Arlert, spit it out,” Jean retorts gruffly, moving to sit at the other end of the couch and stare at Armin in agitation. Much to his chagrin—though also relief—Armin merely looks amused.

It’s the usage of the last name. Jean doesn’t call anyone by their last name on a regular basis except Eren. Nonetheless, Jean calls everyone by their last name when he’s nervous, even Marco.

Armin’s voice sounds just as nervous as Jean feels, when he blurts out, “Will you go out with me?”

Jean blinks, not sure he heard right. “What?”

Armin swallows hard, but much to Jean’s amazement, he repeats the question. “Will you go out—”

“Go where?” Jean asks, not willing to believe that this is the type of question he would normally interpret it as. “Like, outside?”

“No,” Armin says, pursing his lips and raising an eyebrow in that quizzical way he does when he’s being critical, “on a date.”

“You’re asking me on a date?” Jean would like to think that his voice doesn’t come out a squeak, but it might have.

“Yes,” Armin replies, no room for ambiguity or argument. He pushes a strand of errant blond hair behind his ear, focused completely on Jean.

“I’ve never been on a date,” Jean replies, eyes wide. “I mean, not a real date, where someone asked me.”

“Do you not want to go?” Armin asks, but his voice is curious rather than disappointed.

“No, it’s not that.” Jean grinds his teeth and frowns at the floor, running a hand through his hair.

“What is it?”

“Dates are weird.”

“Why?”

“Well, what do you think you do on a date?”

Armin snorts, and that earns a little grin from Jean as he looks up; he hates the fact he’s blushing a little, and the fact that Armin Arlert just asked him out properly, like they’re going to the prom together, makes him feel a little fluttery.

Admissable not even upon death, of course, but it’s still there.

“I dunno,” Jean retorts, “have dinner and be awkwardly straight?”

Armin laughs now, and he just shrugs a little. “I’m okay with being not-that.”

Jean studies him for a moment, and when Armin sense it, their eyes meet; the moment is startlingly intense, and Jean blinks first.

“Um,” he continues awkwardly, “you know that’ll out you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t care?”

Armin’s throat tightens and he straightens up a bit, his shoulders thrown back and his chin pushed out. “No.”

“Really?”

“Okay, maybe I’m a little nervous,” he admits, deflating a bit. “But… yes.”

Jean considers this proposition, and there are two ways to view it:

Armin—closeted, lonely—has asked him out on a proper date, somewhat traditional and awkward.

Armin—open, brave, forthright—has asked him out on a proper date, somewhat traditional and sincere.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Judging from the look on his face, Armin looks as though he’ll never admit that he squeaked the answer, but he looks overjoyed.

Jean feels warm.

They make a “proper date” for the following Saturday, and the first thing Jean thinks once Armin leaves is: shit, he needs to shave.

* * *

#### Three-and-half Days Ago

* * *

When Jean pulls into the driveway to his and Armin's house, he adds the new timezone to his phone.

Rain falls on the windshield, and he sits there for awhile. Decisions will need to be made soon, but for now, there is quietude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://flecksofpoppy.tumblr.com/)!

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest, plottiest, straight-up Jearmin I've written to date, so feedback is greatly appreciated!


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